Gunpowder, Treason and Plot
by The-Lady-Isis
Summary: After her father is hanged for treason, Diana must raise her two sisters with no hope and danger at every turn. Her only hope of understanding what is happening is seeking her father's apprentice: Bruce Wayne. But can he be trusted when no one else can?
1. Treason

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing nothing nothing nothing. Not the Jane Austen bits, and not the JL characters. **

**A/N: Well, here we go again. It's an AU BMWW, set in Regency England. It isn't Austen, though there will be more than a few hints of Austen in here. I hope you enjoy it!**

**Gunpowder, Treason and Plot**

**Chapter One - Treason**

**London, 1810**

The wrenching screech of iron on stone woke the prisoner, jerking him out of his broken slumber. He sat up sharply, then stood as his two oldest daughters were shown into the cell.

Donna wasted no time, and flung herself into her father's arms, sobbing. "Pappa!"

The former Colonel Hector Prince smoothed down her hair. "Hush, Donna. It will be alright."

"How will it?" she choked.

Hector fell silent, looking over Donna's shoulder toward his eldest daughter. Diana stood with her arms crossed, her expression torn between rage and sadness. It would not be alright, and they both knew it. Hector let go of Donna and held his arms out to Diana; her blue eyes immediately grew brighter, but she embraced her father quickly.

"Cassandra?" he asked quickly.

"With Miss Lane. She's safe."

"Good."

"This isn't _fair_," she whispered. "You're _not _a traitor!"

"It no longer matters," he sighed. "Your priority now is the well-being of your sisters, you understand me?"

"Yes, Pappa," she answered, words dutiful but tone resentful. Hector smiled, leaning back to kiss her forehead. "So much like your mother."

"If she were here, she would never let you do this-"

Hector let go of his daughter. "I know this is difficult, Diana. But I've accepted my fate. You must do the same."

"How _can _I, when I know you are innocent?!" she demanded. "Pappa, why are you letting this happen to you?"

"Diana, I've been found guilty," he interrupted firmly. "I'm a traitor to my country and my family. And believe me when I say it is safer that way."

"Safer?" she asked, puzzled. "Pappa, you're not making any _sense_-"

"I know, my darling, I know."

The cell door was opened again, the guard standing there. "Execution's in half an hour. Mr Prince, the priest is here for your confession."

"Thank you," Hector nodded, embracing his daughters quickly. "Diana, listen closely. If you are ever in dire need, find my old apprentice."

Diana wiped her eyes. "Bruce? But he's-"

"He can be trusted — the only one who can, perhaps. Now you must go," Hector ordered. "And do not stay in London; go back to Worcestershire."

"We can't," Donna snapped, as angry as her sister and not as skilled at hiding it. "The crown has taken all our possessions. We have a hundred pounds a year to live on for the three of us."

"Don't fear, Pappa," Diana said quickly, seeing the concern flash across her father's features. "Miss Lane's fiancée has offered us rent of a cottage on his land. Gloucestershire. We will manage. Make do and mend."

The best thing that could happen now was that they find rich husbands who would take them from poverty, but that was extremely unlikely to happen. A dowry of any kind was out of the question for Donna or Cassandra, and Diana herself was almost twenty four. Soon she'd be officially labelled a spinster and no one would want to marry her. Personally she did not care; she firmly believed that she did not need a husband to exist happily — but she knew it would not help either of her younger sisters if that did become the case.

She knew her father saw straight past the façade of confidence, but they both managed equally brave smiles. "We will stay," she said firmly. "If only to make sure you are- Taken care of."

At her side, Donna gave another small noise of grief and broke down into sobs again. Diana took her hand, squeezing her hand. "Courage, sister," she whispered.

Hector kissed each of their foreheads. "Go."

Diana had to literally drag Donna from the cell and out of the Tower. Knowing that she'd barely be able to compose herself, Diana put Donna into a carriage and sent her back to the inn they were staying at. That done, Diana turned back to the Tower and went back inside. She managed not to cry or scream in horror as her father was led out to the scaffold. He locked eyes with her from the moment he picked her face out of the crowds; it wasn't difficult, she imagined. It would be the only one not sneering in hatred or yelling angrily. The priest gave the final prayers, and that was it.

Diana herself prayed to God that his neck might break. That way at least it would be quick.

Five minutes later, his feet had finally stopped twitching.

Diana sobbed all the way back to the inn. At the doorway, though, she had to stop. Donna would be crying into her arms all night, and it would do neither of them any good for Diana to do the same. Tomorrow they had to go back to Gloucestershire and begin their lives as orphans and outcasts.

The landlady of the inn was waiting for her as she opened the door. She, unlike most of her patrons, knew exactly why the two Prince girls were in London, and had offered her kind hospitality anyway. Diana offered a nod. "Good afternoon, Mrs Lancaster."

"Miss Prince. Your sister is resting in your room. Would you me to send some food up to you?"

"No, thank you. I'm afraid neither of us will have much appetite. We leave on the first available coach tomorrow."

"Very well. Goodnight, Miss Prince."

"Goodnight."

As she'd predicted, Donna burst into tears as soon as she set eyes on her sister, and Diana had to spend at least an hour making calming, crooning noises into her hair. "All will be well, Donna," she murmured. "Somehow. I promise. All will be well."

Eventually Donna fell asleep in her sister's arms, the pillow still wet with her tears. Diana couldn't sleep; she kept going over her father's words. It was _safer _for him to be executed? For whom? It certainly was not safer from her point of view — all it had done was to cast she and her sister out onto the charity of their few remaining friends, with little or no chance of profitable marriages for any of them. And then to tell her to find Bruce Wayne, of all people?

She remembered little of Mr. Wayne, as they'd met only a few times. She knew more of him now — enough to know that despite being half-American, he'd risen to meteoric heights in English society; there was even talk of the King ennobling him next year for services to his country. Though no one seemed to really know what those services might have been. Just as, Diana suddenly though, she had never truly been told what her father did. She knew he was in the navy, yes, and she knew that he had been fighting wars for the Empire all his life; the War of Independence, the Napoleonic Wards. He'd risen to the rank of colonel over the years, been involved in many battles, even stood at Admiral Nelson's side on the _Victory _at the Battle of Trafalgar five years ago.

And suddenly he was a traitor, disgraced and now hanged in front of the whole country. What was _happening_?

Diana sighed, rubbing her tired eyes and wondering if the candle had actually grown dimmer. It certainly seemed to have done. _If you are ever in dire need…_ Feeling her eyes prickle again, Diana looked upward. "Well, Pappa…" she whispered. "One thing is certain. I am in dire need. Of knowledge. Why did you let this happen to you?"

She'd find out, she decided. No matter what it took. No matter how long. She would find Bruce Wayne, and though it would severely hurt her pride, she would beg if she had to.

Suddenly Donna uttered a sharp cry in her sleep, tossing and turning in a nightmare. Diana moved to sit on the edge of the bed, taking her younger sister's hands. _No_, she thought gloomily, _I won't. I will do what Pappa asked me to. I will take care of my sisters. I will forget these thoughts of treason and danger. _The corner of her mouth curled up scornfully. "It is unseemly of a young lady anyway, isn't it, Donna?" she asked softly. "That's what Mamma would say."

Their mother had died shortly after giving birth to their youngest sister Cassandra, and since then the three girls had been raised by their father. Or rather, Diana had raised Donna and Cassie (or tried to). Whenever he was home from serving his country, Diana was able to have some time alone, and had always taken her horse and ridden out into the countryside alone. Be her father's 'Little Amazon' again. Now her horse was gone, sold like everything else. Property of the crown. As was her father.

No, she decided firmly. No more riding. No more Little Amazon. Just the impoverished sisters Prince. And their increasingly bleak future.

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**A/N: Review please!**


	2. Sighs

**A/N: Now, please don't faint, but I have updated this after about a million years. This is because I have watched _Sense and Sensibility _about a hundred times in one week. But now I have a plan, so I know what to write in which chapter. It's horribly organised, and not what I normally do, so please let me know if my writing is suffering through planning being too efficient!**

******LordFrieza will be my historical consultant on this story, since I know almost nothing about the War of 1812, and it'll be featuring here.**

**I've just finished the first draft of my novel, and am editing it now. Soon (hopefully sometime in September) it'll be available as an e-book. The links to my facebook, twitter and website are on my profile for more info. **

* * *

**Chapter Two - Sighs**

Diana had never been so pleased and relieved to see anyone in the sum of all her days as she was to see Lois when the carriage pulled up outside the cottage. Miss Lane didn't wait for the coach to stop before she ran up to it, almost pulling Diana and her sister from it. She embraced her tightly. "Oh Miss Prince—my dear Diana!"

Diana hugged back, feeling it was all she could do not to weep. Mindful—as always—of propriety, she let go of Lois and stepped back. "Miss Lane, you should not have troubled yourself-"

"Oh nonsense! If I may not find it in myself to greet a dear friend then what good am I? And besides, Clark agreed." She turned her attention to Donna's wan and pale face. She'd only just ceased to weep a mile or so from Dashwood Cottage, and the tear-tracks still remained on her cheeks. With a kind smile, Lois took her arm. "Come inside, Miss Donna; Cassandra is already waiting for you, there is a fire in the hearth and we have laid a good supper on for you."

"You're too kind," Donna whispered.

The two of them went inside and Diana followed more slowly, massaging her temple. On the journey, she'd thought of little else but what to do next. It was her duty to take care of her sisters, of course, but 'taking care of them' only really meant finding them good husbands. Cassandra was young for that, of course, but at eighteen—nineteen in a matter of weeks—Donna was eligible. And Diana knew her sister. She might claim to be too distraught to think of love now, but her temperament was mercurial, and she was not made for despair. She would fall in love, and she would fall in love with someone entirely unsuitable. Or entirely out of her reach. Diana had gone over the calculations again and again in the journey from London. There was no money for a dowry. There was no money for _sugar, _let alone a dowry. Donna's beauty had been inconsequential before; now it might be the only thing that would save her from poverty.

"Donna! Diana!" Cassandra rushed out of the cottage and embraced both her sisters, hope shining in her eyes. "Did you do it? Did you save Father, did you stop them from-"

One look at Donna, followed by another look at Diana, shut Cassandra's mouth firmly. Donna burst into fresh sobs at the enquiry, and Diana only glared. She had told her youngest sister time and again that there was no hope for Father, that she had no intention of breaking him out of prison, but Cassandra would not have it. She almost hero-worshipped Diana, was convinced there was nothing she could not do. She had been let down today.

She copied Donna, and burst into tears, dashing into the house. Diana heard her thunder up the stairs and then the door of her bedroom slam. A sudden weariness suddenly overtook her, and she had to slump against the doorframe, head now too heavy to hold up.

Lois gently took her by the arm and led her into the parlour, sitting her down. "My sisters…"

"Leave them be, and let them have their cry out. It will be better in the morning."

Diana laughed harshly at that, since there was no possible way it would be better in the morning. Father was still dead, and her sisters would still be grieving, and they would still be poor, and they would still be known nationwide as traitor stock.

"Do you want to eat something?" Lois asked.

"No, thank you, Miss Lane, I-"

"Oh, it's Lois, Diana, I think we've gone past the convention, don't you?"

"Well, I…"

"I knew you'd agree," Lois said briskly, pouring out a cup of tea and handing it to Diana. "Drink."

She sipped slowly, feeling dull and stupid as a cow. "Are you heading back to Sandhurst this evening?"

"No, no, Mother and I are staying at Kent Farm. She insisted. Goodness knows what she thinks might happen when Clark and I are marrying in a fortnight, but…"

"It would be inappropriate."

Lois sighed. "Of course it would."

Lois left soon after supper, since she refused to leave until she had seen all three of the Prince girls eat something, however small it might be. Donna and Cassandra went to bed soon after that, since they were sharing a room. Diana had one to herself. Six months ago they all had a bedroom, and Diana remembered hers being the size of this entire cottage. It wasn't the luxury that she missed—it was the familiar smells. It was the room to breathe, the noise of the wind in the trees outside her bedroom window. There was wind rushing past outside here, of course, but set in the middle of the heath as the cottage was, it whistled and howled past. Like wolves at the door. In her room the size of a prison cell, Diana lay awake all night, shivering and reliving her father's death. She debated her resolution not to contact Mr. Wayne. It was possible, just possible, and she had no idea how, that he might be able to give her a way to prove her father's innocence. If she did, that was the answer to everything. They could get their house back, the money, there would be no fears of dowries or anything else. The thing that made Diana's blood boil was not the lack of any of those things though, it was the idea that her father, a man who had given his life to his country, was now to be remembered as having betrayed it. Tomorrow she would write a letter to Bruce Wayne, and ask why this had happened. …just as soon as she had an address.

At around four in the morning, according to the clock chiming from the parlour downstairs, Diana gave up on the idea of sleep and crossed to the writing desk, lighting a candle to see by and inking her quill. As she placed it to the paper though, she had no idea what to put. She had met Mr Wayne only a few times, as a girl of about fifteen, and had been so focused on other things that she couldn't even remember his face now. There was almost no connection between them—was it even appropriate for her to write to him? What if he decided to simply (and quite rightly), politely, but firmly refute her enquiry?

Diana sighed, strengthening her resolve. If he did do that, then she would keep writing. She had nothing to lose. She would be brave. Her father had been a sailor, and her mother had definitely been a fighter. Diana would follow both her parents. She would be a warrior—an Amazon in truth. She'd just drop the 'little'.

Lois' fiancée, Mr. Clark Kent, was a journalist with a London newspaper, the _Daily Planet_. From what Lois had told her, he had a nose for finding things. Hopefully that might include Bruce Wayne. She put her quill to paper finally, writing to Lois and inviting her for supper the following evening. She would have the Prince's sole maidservant, Bernadetta, take it to the post as soon as the sun was up.

* * *

In the end, it turned out that Etta did not need to send any notes the following morning, since one arrived from Lois. It invited Diana and her sisters to dinner that evening at Kent Farm. The carriage would collect them at four, apparently, and so it did, arriving at the cottage door right on time. Donna had pleaded indisposition, and since she was in bed, prostrate with grief, Diana had allowed it. She had made sure both her and Cassandra's black was clean, and even managed to sit her sister down and comb her hair, though Cassandra protested and fidgeted her way through it. At eleven, she was perpetually in motion, and very energetic.

That done, they both got into the carriage and were driven to Kent Farm, soon after being welcomed by Lois and Clark. Clark shook both their hands warmly. "Miss Prince. May I say how very sorry I am for your loss."

"Thank you, Mr Kent. And thank you for your immense kindness. It is far more than we deserve."

"Not at all. Please let us know if there is anything else we can do."

"Thank you," Diana said again.

He gestured. "This is my mother."

Diana and Cassandra dipped. "How do you do, Mrs Kent?"

"Well, I thank you. Please, come in and be at your ease. Cook has supper underway, but I'd wager you'd like some tea, wouldn't you?"

Martha Kent, though a widow, had a warm, personable quality that made both of them feel instantly welcome and accepted, and the farmhouse was large, amply furnished and very comfortable, cosy and warm in comparison to the icy February outside. Diana certainly liked her more than she liked Mrs Lane, Lois' mother. Not that she was unpleasant, but she made it perfectly clear—without words—what she thought of her daughter associating with the family of a traitor. After they had eaten, Mrs Kent took Cassandra to see some of the new-born lambs her flock had just produced. Cassandra had gone quite gleefully, and soon after Mrs Lane excused herself, pleading a headache. Diana was left alone with Lois and her fiancée.

"How is Miss Donna?" Clark asked kindly.

"Not good. She feels very strongly and very deeply, and she will miss our father terribly, I fear." She sighed. "But she will recover, eventually. We all will."

Lois and Clark looked at one another, apparently communicating silently about something for a moment. Then Lois took a deep breath. "Diana, we've been talking, about you and and your situation. I know how terrible that sounds, so please forgive me for the impudence, but you may change your mind when you hear our proposal."

Diana wasn't angry, only mortified. Her cheeks heated. It was bad enough that she had to consider her family's reduced circumstances, let alone other people discussing it. Nevertheless, she knew Lois would never suggest anything malicious. She cleared her throat. "What is your proposal?"

"It concerns Cassandra. You told me in a letter last year that she was to start at St James' School in Malvern, do you remember?"

"Of course I do, Donna and I went to the same school, but we could never afford the fees for Cassandra to go as well, not now."

"Exactly," Lois nodded. "This is where you must forgive me again, my friend, but this is exactly what we have been talking about."

"Go on."

"We propose to pay for Cassandra's tuition and board."

Diana blinked. "Pardon me?"

"I believe you heard me, Diana," Lois smiled.

"But… But…" She sat back in her chair, taking a deep, composing breath. "Forgive me, but that would be ridiculous. It would be kind in the extreme, but I could not possibly accept. I don't see how it would be appropriate or-"

"Why would it be inappropriate?" Lois asked. "Come, Diana, you're not a fool. You've five hundred pounds between you for the rest of your lives. It is impossible for you to get good marriages without-"

"I don't believe I _need _a marriage," Diana said primly. "You've found love, Lois, and I am supremely happy for you," she said, looking briefly at Clark, "but my life does not need a husband to make it complete, you must understand that."

"Of course, you've always been independent. But for your sisters? You will not be comfortable with all three of you living off your small income. Surely you have no issue with _them _gaining good husbands?"

"Of course not, but it is likely impossible now-"

"Not for Donna. She is young, she is beautiful, and she is very well educated. Cassandra is-"

"_Very _young. Twelve is a little early to be thinkin of marriage, is it not?"

"Yes. And in eight years' time?"

"Then of course, but-"

"And _in_ eight years' time, she will be twenty, beautiful, but uneducated and very poor. Lacking the advantages of her sisters. All we propose is giving her those advantages. Send her to school, with our backing. It will lessen the financial burden on you, it will also lesson the burden of concern. She'll be safe there and out from under your feet. Let us help."

She sighed. It was a tempting offer. More than tempting. It would be stupid, sinful pride to pass it up. And Lois was right. She'd be depriving Cassandra of a real opportunity. Education was a precious gift, whatever Cassandra chose to do with it. Finally she glowered at Lois. "You seem to have talked me into a corner, Miss Lane."

Lois simply grinned. "Don't look at me. It was Clark's idea."

When Diana looked at Clark, he at least had the grace and courage not to look away. Indeed, he smiled; an innocent, schoolboy smile that Diana had to return. "Then I owe you a great deal, Mr. Kent."

"Please, think nothing of it. Lois considers you a very great friend, and I would be honoured to do the same. And friends help one another."

Diana smiled, and then sighed. "Now to break it to Cassandra."

Cassandra did not take it well. Neither did Donna.

For the second time that week, Diana found herself the only person not weeping in a household of three women. Diana just sat in the kitchen and sighed, feeling as if it were the millionth sigh today. It probably was. She decided to spend the time by making making some bread. It was a task she was familiar with, having helped Etta with it many times as a girl. As she mixed together yeast, water and flour, she wondered which of her sisters would be the first to come down. Probably Cassandra; she was always hungry. But then Donna loved the smell of baking bread. Perhaps she would be fortunate. Perhaps both of them would come down.

In any case, the bread had to rise for another hour or two on the range before it could be knocked back and then baked. Diana sighed, picked up her book of Shakespeare sonnets, and reclined on an armchair in the parlour. She did not really read though, instead thinking of the preparations needed before Cassandra's departure. She would not need too many clothes, since material would be provided for her to sew her own school dresses. Of course, there was the problem that Cassandra couldn't really sew. Was there time to teach her?

Diana sighed. Probably not, but then that mightn't matter. Their mother had not been bothered about teaching her daughters the so-called feminine arts, and until Diana went to school, she had never touched a pianoforte, picked up a sketching pad or threaded a needle. And she had not done any of those things since. Donna had been more persistent, especially with art. She was especially skilled with watercolours as well as oil pastels, and did not understand why Diana had not continued with her music, which her teachers had always said she'd had talent in.

But Diana was happy with her lot—most of it. She was a good shot. She was an excellent rider. She spoke three languages, and she could knock out a grown man with one blow. As far as she knew, no one was aware of this except Father- No one was aware of this.

"I refuse to go."

Diana looked up from the book at her sister's face. Unlike she and Donna, Cassandra had their mothers golden-blonde hair, and her unimpressed expression. She stood in the parlour doorway now, her arms folded and a scowl on her young face.

"You refuse?" Diana repeated.

"Yes. You cannot make me go."

"Cassandra-"

"_No_, Diana! You cannot make me go to school. I don't want to go to school. I know all I need to know; I know how to read and write, I know history, I know geography, I know how to ride-"

"And none of those things will matter to society."

"I don't _care _about society."

"Society does not care about that," Diana countered. She got up and took her sister's shoulders, speaking gently. "Cassandra. There is no point in not going. It will benefit you so much to have an education, you cannot imagine what a gift it is."

Cassandra shook her off, pointed an accusatory finger in her face. "You just don't want me in the house! You don't want the cost of feeding me!" She spluttered for a moment in total anger, until she finally said, "You just don't want to have to look at me because I know you're responsible for Father's death!"

Diana's face closed. She knew that had probably been coming, but it still hurt to hear it. Brushing past her sister, she went back to the bread in the kitchen, tipping it out of its bowl and beating the air from it with great gusto. Cassandra followed, after a moment.

"Diana, I… I'm sorry, I did not mean that. I just- I miss him so much!" She crumpled into tears again, and Diana's anger didn't stand up against her sister's grief. She put the bread down and enfolded Cassandra into her arms. "I know. I miss him too. But he's gone, Cassie."

"Why?" she demanded tearfully. "Why is he gone?"

"I don't know. I'm going to try and find out, but I need you somewhere I do not need to worry about you. It could be dangerous," she said, hoping it was not the case, but knowing it could well be.

"Then let me help you!"

"You're too young."

"That is _always _the excuse and it _never _matters!"

"It does matter," she contradicted calmly. "So please. Go to school. Learn. Become a fine, accomplished young lady whom everyone will admire. Will you do that for me? For Father? Please?"

With a heavy sigh, Cassandra nodded. "Very well. But write to me, won't you? Every week?"

"Every day, if you want me to."

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**A/N: Review please!**


	3. Wedding

**A/N:Thank you for the reviews! And, as promised, here's chapter 3, in a lot shorter a time than it took me to get chapter 2 out lol. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Three - Wedding**

"I do miss Cassandra," Donna said, sipping her morning cup of tea, "but it is good to have sugar again."

Diana smiled a little. Now that the budget was only feeding two of them, they could afford both sugar and beef. Though not in the same dish, obviously. "What are you going to do today?"

"I thought I might go up to the top of the hill and take a sketch of the view facing south. It is a clear day."

"I think it might rain today."

"No, it will not rain."

The elder sister chuckled. "You always say that and then it always does."

"Well, not today," Donna said optimistically. "I thought I'd sketch it and then paint it later. It could go in the parlour above the fireplace."

"Be careful, won't you?"

"Of course. What are you doing today?"

"The logs need chopping, and the silverware needs polishing."

"Can't Etta do that?"

"She'll be cleaning the windows and wiping the range down."

"But, Diana, you can't possibly chop logs!"

"Why not?"

"Because you're a woman!"

"I'm strong enough. Calm, sister."

"You are not the man of the house."

"I must be," Diana smiled grimly. "There is no one else to be, is there? Unless you've a fiancée you have thus far neglected to mention?" She smiled and kissed her sister's forehead. "Go and sketch, my dear, but don't catch a cold. There's the wedding tomorrow, don't forget."

Once Donna had gone up the hill with her sketchbook and charcoal in hand, Diana went outside to begin cutting up the logs that were piled outside the cottage. If she didn't do it then there would be no firewood for the coming weeks. Not good when they were still in the depths of winter. She'd dressed in her oldest, tattiest clothes, which, while still not ideal for wood-chopping, would not be a tragedy if they were to be ruined completely. She made sure her hair was tightly bound in a bun so it would not come loose, and picked up the axe. She placed the first lump of wood in the centre of the block and took careful aim. Then she brought the axe hurtling down. It hit perfectly, and the wood split cleanly down the grain of the wood, making two perfect pieces of firewood. Diana dropped them into the wicker basket at her feet, and continued. She doubted most other women would be able to undertake such a strenuous task as chopping wood for hours on end, but as she had told Diana, she had no choice. There was no one else to do it, and she was strong enough. The muscles in her arms were powerful and well-defined. One of the reasons she chose to wear long sleeves even in summer. It drew fewer stares that way.

Women were not supposed to be strong, Diana reminded herself bitterly, whacking the axe down. It made a _thwump _sound. Or independent, _thwump, _or practical, _thwump_. That was left to the men, _thwump. _Women were supposed to paint, _thwump_, and play music, _thwump_, and ride side-saddle, _thwump_, and look beautiful and, _thwump_, do absolutely, _thwump,_ nothing else.

* * *

It was a perfect day for this, Donna thought happily. The sun was shining low in the sky, and it glittered over the snow which dusted the hills around her. The path up the hill was the sole ribbon of dark. It was cold, yes, but brightly so, and in direct sunshine it was even comfortable. She opened the cover of her sketching pad and pulled out her charcoal, then began. First the broad strokes—the hills, the river, glistening with silver. Donna looked at the colours as much as she looked at the shapes. It was too cold to paint outside, but as long as her memory held up, she could paint at home. She just had to remember what shade the shadows were, or the palest, eggshell blue of the sky.

Snow was always difficult, she found, since just to leave blank whiteness on the page felt wrong. In the sketch though, it would have to do, and there was no other colour—or lack of colour—that she could use for snow. She would paint this view again and again, she thought. It wasn't their home in Worcestershire, but it was beautiful all the same. She would paint it in spring, and then hang that painting next to this one. The pale green against the white would look wonderful. Or perhaps she would even have season walls in the parlour, she thought suddenly, picturing that. If Diana would let her decorate the parlour. Heaven knew it needed something to lighten it; it was such a gloomy room. Such a gloomy cottage, in fact.

Father would have just said it needed some colour to make it less dreary, of course, she thought with a small, fond smile.

It still hurt to think of Father, but she was beginning to fall into line with Diana's feelings: that it was not fair. Such a petulant, childish thing to say, but to think, perhaps less so. There had been no fairness, no justice in the way Hector Prince had been treated, and even less in the casual way he had been executed. How much more corruption and cruelty was there in the world? It needed fixing. And Donna wanted to help fix it. It might be an impossible dream, but it was one which would give her focus, a goal. Something to do, or to try at least. And the effort would bring some pride back to her father's memory.

Nodding at that idea, Donna returned to her sketch. She would do that, and in the meantime she would fill the cottage with colour. She would paint and paint and paint, and when spring came, she would go out and collect wild flowers every day. It was almost finished, right down to the wispy clouds hanging to the west. But there was something missing. Something in the foreground, something dark to draw the eye…

She looked up, searching over the landscape for something that would work. Almost instantly, she found it. There was a lone rider at the bottom of the hill. He had his back to Donna, but was doing as she was, and looking out over the valley. The horse was black, dark against the snow, as was the gentleman's clothing and hat. Perfect. She sketched him in, swift, bold strokes of her charcoal.

There was something a little odd about the way he sat, she noticed, the way only one hand gripped the reins, but he was definitely a gentleman. Donna could tell that much from his straight posture. For a moment, she wished she could see his face.

As if he had heard her, he turned to look at the top of the hill. With the glare of the winter sun in her face and the light reflecting off the snow around him, she still couldn't see his features properly. He obviously could see her though, since he tipped his hat—Donna inclined her head—and then rode off. His horse left a neat, winding trail of hoof-prints in the snow. She watched him for a little while, and then smiled to herself. Yes. Definitely a gentleman.

With her sketch done, she folded the paper away and began the walk home. She moved quickly, trying to regain feeling in her toes and hands. Despite wearing gloves, a bonnet, her coat and a shawl, she was still very cold. And she knew that Diana, when she complained of this, would only point out that she should have worn two shawls. But then that was her sister. Caring and clever, and always kind, but practical to a fault sometimes.

As proven when Donna rounded the corner to the gate of the cottage. Diana was out at the front, not wearing a shawl, and chopping wood. She was swinging the axe up and down as though it were a quill, and never missing. If she ignored the fact that women were not supposed to be skilled at manual labour, Donna could almost see how the sight would be hypnotic. Up, down, split, knock off, up, down, split.

She opened her mouth, about to tell her sister for the second time that day that chopping firewood was hardly a fitting occupation for a lady, when it occurred to her that doing so might go against her earlier resolution. Diana was right—there was no one else to do this. And in a small way, it was fixing things, was it not?

Diana wedged the axe down into the block and wiped her forehead, smiling at her sister. "Donna. Did you get your sketch done?"

"Yes." She smiled and held it up. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful."

"I thought I might do one for each season, hang them all in the parlour."

"Bring some colour to the place?" Diana asked with a knowing smile.

Donna nodded with a resolution that she wouldn't cry. "Yes."

"It's a wonderful idea, sister."

"Thank you. May I help with that?"

"With what? With the logs?"

"Well…yes."

Diana chuckled. "This is a turnaround." She stood back and folded her arms, then nodded. "Very well. Come here then." Donna did so, handing over her sketchpad. "Now grasp the axe, about two-thirds of the way along the handle, firmly, but don't lock your arms. Spread your feet a little. Perfect. Now pick it up."

Donna tried, she really did, but it seem to be wedged very firmly into the block. She couldn't move it at all. Diana seemed to have expected that, since she stepped a little closer and said, "Rock it, back and forth, back and forth. After a moment you should feel it loosen. Then you can pull it out. But try and do it slowly," she added, "unless you'd like your nose a lot shorter than it is."

Donna followed her sister's instructions carefully, and to her surprise it did seem to work. The axe came loose at any rate, except once she had the full weight of it, it was surprisingly heavy, and gravity did the rest. Diana had to make a lunge for it in order to make sure Donna didn't lose any toes.

They both burst out laughing though, clutching at one another to keep from falling. The axe was now lodged in the frozen ground, quivering slightly.

"Great Hera, Donna!" Diana gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. "Come on, let's go inside before you do yourself some serious injury."

With their arms around one other, the two sisters went into the cottage, Etta preparing some tea for them. As they drank in companionable silence, Donna remarked, "You haven't said that since Mother died."

"No, I suppose I haven't."

Perhaps after her name sake, Hippolyta Prince had schooled her daughters to be women decades—if not centuries—ahead of their time. Both Diana and Donna could read and write in English, Latin and Ancient Greek even before they went to school, and Diana in particular had loved tales of the Greek heroes and their gods. She'd decided at the age of six that she was not going to be a Christian; instead she was going to worship Hera, Athena, Aphrodite and Artemis. Hence, it was always 'Great Hera' or 'Athena's mercy'. That had changed after Hippolyta had died giving birth to Cassandra; she had of course been buried in a church, with a Christian burial. Thereafter, Diana had reverted to Christ and His Father. Now it appeared she was reverting back.

"Why now?"

"The Bible teaches forgiveness. Peace and reconciliation. I have a feeling there is going to be little of that in our future, Donna. I cannot give you any reason for that suspicion. It is only a feeling. An intuition. But if we are going to war-"

"War?" Donna demanded, her eyes wide.

Diana's eyes were equally wide, but she was staring at some fixed point in the middle distance. It was uncanny; as though she were seeing something Donna could not. She also clearly had not heard her. "If we are going to war, then I would rather invoke the old gods than the new."

There was a silence, in which both sister shivered. A bang from the kitchen made Diana snap out of her trance, and blink. "Goodness, I'm sorry. I don't know what that was."

"No, nor do I," Donna frowned. "Please don't do that again, Diana. It was frightening."

Diana leaned forward and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, dear one."

"It's alright. It was simply not like you."

"No," Diana said thoughtfully. She put a hand to her forehead for a moment and then shook her head. "Is your gown for tomorrow clean?"

* * *

"Donna! We will be late unless we leave now!" Diana called up the stairs the next morning, looking anxiously at the clock on the mantlepiece.

"I'm almost ready!"

"'Almost' is not quite good enough, dearest!" she called back. "Miss Lane will be inclined to deprive you of another sister if we are late, I fear!"

Donna laughed, though Diana was only half-joking. Finally though she came down the stairs, bringing a small carpet bag down with her. In it were the gown, gloves and shoes she would be wearing for the dancing this evening. She had on a pale yellow dress which set off the golden colour of her skin. Another gift from their mother. Women were supposed to be fair-skinned and remain indoors, but both Donna and Diana loved to be outside. With their mother's complexion, it meant that they could indulge that passion and still look healthy. In Diana's experience, it was women who decided women should be pale anyway; it made no difference whatever to men. Not that she cared what men thought of her, of course.

Diana herself had on a pastel green dress, with a matching ribbon woven through her raven hair. She had a dark blue silk packed for tonight. They would both be back in their black tomorrow, of course, but today was a day of celebration.

"You look very pretty," Diana said, before her sister could ask.

"Diana, I am not on the search for beaux."

"For _what_?" Diana asked, laughing.

Donna coloured. "It's what Lucy Lane calls them."

"I see. Come, let's get in the carriage. Then you and Miss Lucy can discuss 'beaux' to your hearts' content."

"Oh be quiet. You know I don't care for her company."

"It is unfortunate that the antipathy is not reciprocated," Diana said, not hiding her amusement as they climbed into the carriage. Donna scowled as the vehicle jerked into motion, and did not speak to her sister on the journey to the church.

They had seats on the bride's side of the pews, at the front of the church, in the row just behind Lois' family. Her mother was already sat down, and nodded to Diana and Donna as they took their seats. Sat opposite Mrs Lane, Mrs Kent gave a friendly wave. Her son—looking slightly nervous but not as terrified as she might have expected—also smiled faintly at the two Prince girls.

"He looks a little frightened," Donna remarked to her sister.

Diana smiled fondly, whispering, "He's marrying Lois; I would be a little apprehensive too."

Donna giggled silently until church doors opened and Lois began her walk up the aisle. She was escorted by her father, General Samuel Lane, in his red dress uniform. He looked very smart, and was almost bursting with pride. Lois, from what Diana could see of her face, had not taken her eyes from Clark's face. Likewise, all signs of tension had drained from Mr Kent's body. His expression was full of light as he looked at his bride.

Watching the bride pass, Diana suddenly found herself looking at a guest on the groom's side of the church. He was a gentleman, about thirty she guessed, or a little younger, and handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes. And…familiar. As if sensing her gaze, he looked at her, unsmiling. Her gaze turned assessing, analytical rather than particularly admiring. And suddenly Diana knew him, her heart stuttering inside her chest. Bruce Wayne. He was here.

Even though she was sat inside a church watching two dear friends go through the Christian marriage rite, Diana could not help but feel as if Hera had answered her after all.

* * *

**A/N: Well...I didn't say he'd be talking, did I? :P Review please!**


	4. Condolences

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! As promised, here's the next chapter. Complete with dialogue.  
**

**Chapter Four - Condolences**

Suddenly aware that she was staring, Diana tore her gaze from Mr Wayne's and directed it back to the couple at the altar. She kept looking at him out of the corner of her eye, however. Though she and Donna were staying at Kent Farm for dancing and the wedding breakfast, she had no idea if that same invitation had been extended toward Bruce Wayne. And she had no intention of letting him leave before she had spoken to him.

Steeling herself for what would be potentially _great _embarrassment later on, Diana kept her breathing calm and slow, forming how she might approach him. The best thing would be if Mr Wayne was also a guest at the Kents' wedding breakfast, and then the dancing this evening. Then there would be many opportunities to speak to him, to establish a proper acquaintance and the basis of friendship. Then perhaps her questions and entreaties—though they would still highly personal—would be answered. If, of course, he had not been invited to the wedding breakfast, then Diana would have to literally chase after him as though she were hunting a fox. The mere idea of it was awful.

She took a deep breath and breathed out through her nose. Awful it was, yes, but if that was her only choice then she would still do that. She owed it to her father.

With that thought in her head, it was easier to calm herself, and within a few moments she felt better, enough to focus on the wedding. The minister was speaking, having gone through Clark's vows. Now he was leading Lois through hers. It was as Diana had expected, though she realised after a moment, once Lois had almost completely finished her vows, what had been missed out. Lois had not promised to honour and obey. Instead the word 'obey' had been replaced with the word 'cherish'.

Realising this, Diana felt a broad smile on her features. So like Lois, and why should it not be? Why should she promise to obey her husband by sheer virtue of the fact that he was her husband? Was it not enough that he had her love, that he had her heart, body and soul? Certainly, it seemed to be more than enough for Clark, who looked completely overwhelmed with happiness.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."

Everyone in the church stood, applauding the two of them. Clark and Lois seemed utterly oblivious to it all, with eyes only for each other. "That is the true image of love," Donna sighed.

Diana could only agree, especially when Clark bent and kissed his wife softly. That done, he led her out of the church, the rest of the congregation following them into the sunny churchyard.

"Miss Prince."

Diana turned to see Martha Kent hailing her. "Mrs Kent. You must be very proud."

"Indeed I am, my dear, indeed I am. Will you lend an old woman your arm?"

"Certainly," Diana said, holding out her arm so the older woman could take it. "Though I think you are not so very old, Mrs Kent."

She smiled at that, though shook her head before looking at the forms of her son and daughter-in-law. "Perhaps not, but this makes me feel it. Soon enough I will be a grandmother."

"You do not wish to be?" Diana asked, craning her neck to look behind them as they came out of the church. Mr Wayne was still following along with all the other guests. Now that he was standing, Diana could see for the first time how tall, as well as how broad, he was.

"No, of course I do. But it will make me seem _so _very old then."

Diana chuckled.

"You and your sister should come in my carriage," Martha said. "There's more than enough room for me and it will save you the walk."

Bruce Wayne was also getting into a carriage, black and with the a silver W on the carriage door. "Thank you, Mrs Kent, you are very kind," Diana nodded.

As they set off, she looked out of the window, relieved to see that the black carriage was following. "Who else is invited to the wedding breakfast, Mrs Kent?" Donna asked, as though she were receiving the question directly from Diana's mind.

"Well, there is Lois' family, of course, and as for her friends, there is really only you, the Brandons and the Ferrases—and a young officer under her father who is a particular friend of the family, I believe. Olsen, is his name, James Olsen."

The name meant nothing to either of them. "And from the groom's side?"

"Well through his work, Clark has a number of friends quite highly placed in society," Martha explained, without a hint of boastfulness. "Bruce Wayne, Oliver Queen, Mr White is his editor at the _Daily Planet_, and a few others. Mr Wayne's ward, Richard Greyson is here too."

"Greyson…" Donna mused. "I know that name. Where do I know that name?"

"Someone Father knew?" Diana asked.

"I doubt it," Martha said. "He's American."

"You forget, Mrs Kent," Diana said grimly. "Our father was a traitor. I'm sure he's supposed to have known many Americans. I'm sure he was a personal friend of President Madison."

"Diana," Donna reprimanded.

Drawn back to herself, Diana grimaced. "I'm sorry, Mrs Kent. I had a touch of melancholia."

Martha patted her hand. "Quite understandable, my dear, think nothing of it."

They pulled up outside the farm, though not at the house as Diana had expected. Instead outside the barn. She could not help the raised eyebrow she shot at Donna, who looked equally mystified. Martha, however, did not look at all concerned. Once everybody had dismounted from the carriages, they all looked as confused as the Prince sisters did. Martha only smiled benignly, apparently waiting for her son and daughter-in-law to arrive. Once they did, Clark stepped down first and assisted his wife down, then smiled at the assembled guests.

"Please don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen, we've not mislaid our senses. The farmhouse is simply too small to hold all of us with any degree of comfort, so we have made extensive renovations to the barn. I'm sure it will be to your liking, so please."

In they all went, and there were gasps of surprise and pleasure all round. From the inside, the barn could hardly be called that at all. Its floor had been paved with dark flagstone, swept immaculately clean. There were low-slung chandeliers over a long table, with wildflowers every few feet. As for the cutlery and plates, nothing matched, and nothing looked expensive. But it looked wonderful and welcoming all the same. They ate well too, though again the food was simple and plain. Humble.

As if the gods had planned it, Diana and her sister were sat opposite Bruce Wayne and his ward, shortly introduced to them as Richard Greyson. He was a young man about Donna's age, dark hair and blue eyes, handsome and with an easy smile. If not for manners, Diana had the feeling he would have introduced himself with a 'Call me Dick'.

Donna seemed completely charmed anyway, she noticed with a wry smile. Of course, it was to be expected—he was someone entirely unsuitable after all.

* * *

"How do you like living in England, Mr Greyson?"

"Very much," he answered. "It's like a miniature version of America."

"How long have you been here?"

"Bruce adopted me when I was ten, brought me to live here then."

"Really?"

"You seem surprised, Miss Donna."

"I am—forgive me, but you've a strong accent. I would not have guessed you'd lived here more than a year or two."

He shrugged. "I prefer to keep hold of my heritage; my accent is a mark of that. I might live here, and of course I labour in service to the Crown, but I am still an American."

"Perfectly understandable. You must miss it."

"I do. But I meant what I said; there is no part of the United States that is not reflected in England, so there are reminders of home everywhere. I particularly like Gloucestershire. Good bridle ways. I was out for a ride only yesterday."

"Oh it was you!" she gasped suddenly.

He blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, hastening to explain, "but I was on top of Cobbler's Hill yesterday, sketching. I'd almost finished the drawing, but I needed something in the foreground, something to-"

"-draw the eye," he nodded.

"Exactly, yes—and at the perfect time, a rider appeared-"

"So you were the lady I saw."

"Yes! And you were—you are—the gentleman in my drawing!"

They both laughed at the same time, stopped, then smiled at one another. Donna felt her cheeks heating. He had a very charming smile. She blushed even more when he asked, "Miss Donna, when the music begins…may I have the first dance?"

* * *

With her sister chatting animatedly with Richard Greyson, Diana had little to do but exchange civil small talk with the other guests, all the while wishing to speak to the man sitting directly across from her. There was no possibility of embarking on a private conversation with him in the hearing of everyone else anyway, of course, but thus far they'd not said two words to each other, except the customary introductions, of course.

The other thing Diana had to do was look at how much everyone up and down the table was drinking. She knew there were several military officers here, and above all she feared the subject of her father being brought up.

Glancing across the table again, she was surprised to find her gaze being caught and held by Bruce Wayne. "My deepest condolences on the loss of your father, Miss Prince," he said after a moment, his voice low-pitched, steady and sincere. "I know what it is to have both parents snatched from you cruelly. Tou"

Diana found herself speechless.

"And your father was a good man, one of the best men I knew. If there is ever anything I can do, please do not hesitate."

She swallowed. "Thank you, Mr Wayne, you are very kind. It…has been rare. Even from some who before I would have called friends."

He nodded. "Fear is often endemic."

"So it seems." She smiled and looked at the top of the table. "However, Miss Lane- Mrs _Kent's _friendship has never wavered. And the senior Mrs Kent has also been very gracious."

"Yes, I've always found that."

"Do you know the family well?" she asked, taking a sip of her own wine.

"Quite well. I own the _Daily Planet_." This was said with such a lack of significance that Diana almost missed it, surprising though it was. "And Mr Kent and I sometimes work together outside the newsroom, which has allowed acquaintance to become friendship."

It was on the tip of Diana's tongue to ask what kind of work they did together, if it had anything to do with the kind of work Mr Wayne and her father had done together-

But at that moment, there was the loud sound of a chair scraping back, Mr Kent standing and holding his arms up for silence. It quickly fell. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I may take a moment of your time? Thank you." He beamed. "My wife and I-" he had to stop here and beam a little more, kiss Lois' hand, "my wife and I would like to thank you for both coming, and for all the congratulations and well wishes you have bestowed on us. It has been, and is, truly heartwarming."

There was a round of applause, a chorus of "hear, hear."

"There will be a short break whilst we all change our clothes, during which the band will set up and the servants can clear away the table. Then we'll all reconvene here for the dancing."

There were cheers all round, particularly from the younger guests. Including Donna, who should really have known better. She herself had no wish nor cause to dance, and instead went immediately (once changed into her evening gown) to one of the chairs placed on the edge of the hall. Obliged to come with her, Donna sat down too. And then almost immediately got up again when the music started up.

Dick came over. "Miss Prince. May I dance with your sister?"

"By all means," she smiled.

Soon enough, Diana found herself sitting with some other female guests, all of whom were acquaintances but were none of them friends. They all had been dancing, and sat with red faces, fanning themselves, glasses of wine in their hands. Diana waited for the flow of small talk to begin.

"Miss Donna looks as though she is enjoying herself very much."

"Indeed. She has always loved to dance, and this is a good occasion for it."

"Who is it she's dancing with?"

"Mr Greyson."

"An American, I hear."

"Yes."

"So strange that an American would be invited to a wedding in the heart of England, do you not think, Miss Prince? Or perhaps you do not."

"No, as it happens. I do not," Diana replied mildly, fixing the woman with such an implacable stare that she had to look away.

"Of course, his guardian is half-American, is he not? Mr Wayne? I am sure his mother was from the colonies."

"I have not heard which of his parents came from the United States of America."

"Odd that either of them should be invited. Had I known I declare I do not think I would have-"

"Bothered to come?" an angry voice interrupted. An angry, American voice. "Damn. Wouldn't that have been a loss to the party."

The women around Diana gasped—from nowhere, apparently, Dick had appeared, colour high in his cheeks with an exertion which Diana didn't think had anything to do with the dancing. "Sir, you should not use such language," one of the primmer women murmured.

"Then you shouldn't insult people you don't know based on things you know nothing about," he snapped back. "How dare you-"

"Dick." Bruce Wayne's turn now to melt out of the crowd, somehow looking even more fearsome despite his calm demeanour and cool tone. "Where is your lovely dance partner?"

His question seemed to draw Dick out of whatever temper he was in, and he took a visibly deep breath. "Outside. She wished to breathe some fresh air."

"Then you should join her," Bruce said, voice brooking no argument. "I am sure you need to cool your own head."

Once Dick had gone—without another word—the women began gossiping again. This time, they had apparently completely forgotten that Diana was even present. "Well, I must say! Americans and traitors at the same celebration-! It is well you reprimanded him when you did, sir."

"I happen to agree entirely with his words, madam," Bruce said coldly. "I suggest you visit America. Spend some time in its land and with its people before you condemn them simply for their nationality. Or for the false accusations laid against their families."

Diana understood why all the woman around her suddenly seemed to shrink away; the force emanating from Bruce was palpable, and his blue eyes blazed. He had not raised his voice, nor had his body language suddenly become threatening. He was just…undeniable. When he stretched out his hand to her, she took it without wondering why she was doing so.

Finally he looked at her, none of the anger left in his eyes. "Miss Prince. May I have this dance?"

"Of course."

* * *

**A/N: Review please!**


	5. Letters

**A/N: I realise some of the dialogue in this chapter may seem jingoistic and inflammatory. It may also seem very OOC. Please rest assured this does not reflect my personal views, and it will be explained later in the story. Don't let it put you off. **

**Chapter Five - Letters  
**

"Thank you," Diana said, as soon as they were away from those vitriolic women.

"I hate to see a lady in distress, Miss Prince."

"I can take care of myself."

"I do not doubt it. But cruelty is unnecessary from whatever angle it comes from. And for it to come for the amusement of others is repugnant and inexcusable."

She nodded. "Your ward seems very patriotic."

"He is. I think if it were not his only chance for a good home and a good education then he would not have consented to come to England at all."

"His family?"

"Dead, all of them murdered."

"Murdered?" she repeated, shocked.

"It is not as uncommon in America as it is here. There is more lawlessness, fewer honest men."

"You speak harshly for someone whose mother was American."

"I have first-hand knowledge of it," he answered briefly. "My parents trusted the American government. They were murdered because of that."

Ah, so that was what he had meant when he had expressed his sympathy earlier. "I am sorry."

He nodded, then paused, though his feet did not. He was an excellent dancer, she suddenly realised; they had not missed a single step. Dancing was thankfully one of the feminine arts that Diana was more than competent in. Finally he spoke again. "Whatever you hear, Miss Prince…"

"Yes?"

"Forgive me—whatever you hear said about your father, whatever he is accused of, you must never believe any of it. Hector was incapable of betraying his country. I have no evidence," he added, seeing where her thoughts might take her, "else of course I would have presented it at court."

"I see. Then what do you have?"

"Suspicion."

"Suspicion of whom?"

"Men who have neither names nor faces."

Well that was an impossible answer, so Diana narrowed her eyes, looking into his for signs of jest or anything more sinister. There was nothing; he appeared to be entirely serious. Or else entirely mad. Diana frowned a little more. They were silent for another moment or two, following the steps of the dance while Diana's mind worked furiously. Finally she decided to ask the blunt question. "What exactly do you do, Mr Wayne?"

He frowned in apparent puzzlement. "I thought I had explained, Miss Prince. I am an import merchant, specialising in goods from-"

"-the Far East, I know. But what do you _actually _do?"

She had left it too late; with the music fading now, he only took her hand, kissed the back of it, bowed and then excused himself. He was gone before a protest had formed on her lips. When she went to look for him again, neither he nor his ward were anywhere to be found. Donna, when she found her, told her that Mr Greyson had left her some minutes earlier, though she did not seem too distraught about that, considering how well they had been getting on.

She went then to talk to the bride and groom, who while they had been dancing every set so far, had been obliged to take a short break. "I think my feet may be bleeding," Lois said to Diana when she saw her, though that did not make the broad smile on her face disappear.

"But you are still having a good time?"

"Oh, the best of times," she beamed.

"I expect you'll be departing soon for Scotland, Mr Kent?"

"Soon enough," he nodded. "But first I must persuade my wife to quit the dancing. Not an easy task, I fear."

"No," she smiled. "How long will you be gone?"

"Around two months I should think. If we went for any shorter a time it would hardly be worth going at all, since it will take a week or even perhaps two to get to Edinburgh."

"And Mr Wayne is happy for you to take such a long leave of absence? I was dancing with him a few moments ago," she said in explanation. "He must be a remarkable employer."

"Actually it was Mr White who gave me the time off. He's the editor of the paper."

"I see."

"Mr Wayne is the owner though."

"Yes, I met him over dinner. He was kind enough to…rescue me from some rather unpleasant acquaintances," she said. "You've not seen him have you? He vanished after the dance and there was something I wanted to discuss with him."

Clark smiled with a little shrug. "He does have that habit."

"Do you not find it frustrating?"

"I have found it is something one must become accustomed to, or else be driven made by it."

She laughed. "I see."

They were approached by a blonde man and woman, both of whom Clark greeted warmly before turning to his wife. "Lois, I don't think you've been formally introduced: this is Mr Oliver Queen, head of Queen Industries, and his wife Mrs Dinah Queen."

The Queens bowed and curtseyed respectively. "Wonderful to make your acquaintance, Mrs and Mrs Queen."

"Likewise. Congratulations, Mrs Kent. The ceremony was beautiful, and this evening has been most enjoyable."

"Thank you." She gestured to Diana. "This is my friend, Miss Diana Prince."

Neither of them batted an eyelid at her surname, instead smiling in a friendly fashion. "Miss Prince."

"Mr Queen. Mrs Queen. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"As it is you. Have you enjoyed the dancing?"

"Yes, I always do. It is one art I can reasonably judge myself to be competent in."

"I cannot believe that," Dinah smiled. "No one is that graceful on the dancefloor and nowhere else."

"Thank you, Mrs Queen, but you've not seen me do anything but dance. I should wait until you see me draw or sing before you make a judgment on my grace. Or lack, thereof."

They laughed, and Dinah asked, "So where are you from, Miss Prince?" Diana blinked in surprise, and reading the expression, a concerned look appeared on the blonde Mrs Queen's face. "Are you alright, Miss Prince?"

"Fine, thank you, it's just… Forgive me, I find it odd now to think that anyone in society does not now know of my family. My father was executed for treason a few weeks ago."

Dinah's jaw dropped. "I am so sorry, Miss Prince. How terribly rude of me. I apologise, Oliver and I have been in India for more than two years now. He is the heavily invested in the industry over there."

"Ah, I see."

"I can't apologise enough for-"

"Please, Mrs Queen, think nothing of it," Diana assured. "What about you? Where are you from originally?"

"I was born in Portsmouth, and met Oliver in London three years ago. We married and when our work took us to India, we moved to Delhi."

Diana made a note of that. _Our _work, not _his_. _My, my,_ she though. _This wedding seems to be full of enlightened young women. _Not that she had a problem with that; indeed, she enjoyed their society more than she did any other.

"Where do you reside, Miss Prince?"

"At Dashwood Cottage, a few miles from here, with my sister, Donna. I have another sister too, Cassandra, who is at school."

"Ah, well in that case," Oliver exclaimed, who had been listening, "allow us to take you and your sister home. It is on our way after all."

"That is very kind, Mr Queen, but-"

"I will brook no refusal, Miss Prince. Please accept it as the gift of kindness from a stranger."

Diana, obliged to accept, nodded. "Thank you. I will go and fetch my sister."

She did so, finding Donna dancing. She did not seem too disappointed to be pulled away from her partner though, and came quite willingly. 'Donna, you've not seen Mr Wayne anywhere have you?" Diana asked quickly.

"No, I haven't. Why?" she asked curiously.

"No particular reason," she answered quickly, feeling uncomfortable under her sister's beady and slightly amused gaze, for no reason she could name. "We were just discussing something interesting, that's all."

Donna nodded, and Diana frowned once her sister's attention had moved on. She looked quickly through the crowd, but could not find the face she was looking for. The intriguing Mr Wayne had completely disappeared.

* * *

A week after the Kents' wedding, Donna and Diana both received letters. Diana's was from Lois, sent from an inn in Sheffield.

_Dear Diana,_

_ I hope this finds you well, my friend, and that your sisters are also in good health. This will not be a long message, as I am writing primarily to send you the address of the apartments we are staying at in Edinburgh, so that you may reach me there. I have enclosed it at the bottom. For the present we have stopped at an inn in Sheffield for a few days, so that the horses may have a proper rest. I am, of course, as ever, impatient to be underway, but Clark tells me not even I can alter time, no matter how much I try! It is still so strange to see my luggage marked as 'Mrs L Kent'—she still feels like a stranger to me, another woman who is only newborn. I'm not quite at home in my new skin. I see your face as you read that, and no doubt it is laughing—_

—Diana was grinning—

—_but please do not misunderstand me. I am still myself, and that shall never change. It would take more than marriage, you know that. And you mustn't fear that Clark is trying to change me; he never would. He loves me as much as I love him, and to me he is the most perfect being. And now I insist you burn this letter immediately after reading it, because my blush would already put most strawberries to shame! _

_ We set off for Scotland tomorrow, and I am reading about the various attractions awaiting us there. I hope to convince Clark to take an excursion to the coast whilst we are there, as well as touring the castle, museums and taking in the sights. I feel very excited now, and can hardly wait to be there and take it all in._

_ Before I sign off, I must ask you a favour. Clark has naturally been writing to his mother often, and while she insists she is well, not lonely and without need of aid around the farm, he is convinced that she would not tell him if something were really wrong. I am sure you know the reasons this might be; she does not wish to worry us, and she does not wish to potentially spoil our enjoyment of the honeymoon. He asks if you might find time to see to her or write to her, simply to either confirm or deny his fears. If confirmed, then please do not feel you need to intercede on our behalf—simply tell us and we will come back down to England as soon as possible. That is all. _

_ With that, I must leave, since it is late and the bed is calling. Another thing I look forward to talking to you about, though I do not think even I dare put it on paper. You would not believe how pleasurable being married can be…_

_ That is all for now!_

_ Your devoted friend,_

_ Lois._

Diana folded up the letter with a blush staining her cheeks. She had never experienced what Lois had alluded to, but she knew enough—in theory—to guess at her meaning. Her mother had never approved of the custom of keeping daughters in the dark about anything they might one day need to know. As a result, Diana knew full-well what her wedding night (not that there was ever to be one now) would hold, and she thought Donna did too. Cassandra, of course, was too young yet, and it was not a conversation Diana was looking forward to. Especially since she would hardly be able to answer any of her questions to a degree of satisfaction.

And on the subject of questions without answers, Donna had also received a letter this morning. It seemed to be expected, since she took it from Etta with an eager smile. She had given only vague replies to her sister's enquiries—an old friend from school, apparently, whom she had been writing to for several months. As far as Diana's memory knew, few of Donna's friends still communicated with her since Father's execution. Besides, the handwriting on the front of the envelope had not been feminine. It was decidedly masculine; bold and strong. Added to which, Donna had not stayed in the parlour with her sister to read the letter, and nor had she discussed it afterward. It had been enough for Diana's suspicions to be piqued, and the letters had continued. While she corresponded with Lois and Martha Kent regularly, Donna received and issued a series of letters, all to the same person, and none of which she allowed her sister to see. It had occurred to Diana a number of times that a simple search of Donna's room would reveal the hiding place of the letters, but it had equally not occurred to her to actually do it. She could not abuse her sister's trust like that. Whomever Donna wrote to was her business. Diana would have to trust that she knew what she was doing. And that for once, head would overrule heart.

For now, she was fairly certain that she knew who it was from. She wanted to be happy for her sister, she really did, but it was difficult. Dick Greyson had seemed a lovely young man, and he and Donna had gotten on very well… But the fact remained was that they would not be able to marry, if friendship turned to romance. Bruce Wayne had seemed very pleasant, and certainly very courteous, but he was the richest man in England. Diana seriously doubted he would allow his sole heir to marry a woman as poor in fortune and standing as Donna.

Only how to break it to her sister?

* * *

**A/N: Review please!**


	6. Company

**I've published the book! _Arthur's Witch: The Priestess_ is now available on Kindle and Smashwords, and you can download the sample for free, so it's gotta be worth a look! The blurb is below.**

_**Morgan le Fay is a woman shrouded in infamy. The original wicked witch, she is responsible for bringing the golden age of Arthur to a catastrophic end. Though evil guile, ruthless ambition and petty jealousy, she stood against the light of Britain's first Christian King, her own brother. She watched an entire kingdom burn. A subhuman monster who consorted with demons and became the Devil's mistress. **_

_**Or a woman shrouded in mystery. The original fairy godmother, she is responsible for creating the golden age of Arthur from the ground to the ramparts of Camelot. Though passion, purity of spirit and selflessness, she stood against the religious perversion which invaded her homeland and corrupted her King, her own brother. She protected an entire kingdom as a mother would a child. A High Priestess whose name and legend have been besmirched and besmeared by lesser men.**_

_**Her own story. Now told.**_

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this took me so long to get out, people. Here's the next installment, hope you enjoy :) **

**Chapter Six - Company  
**

The next time a letter arrived, Diana seized her opportunity. Bracing herself for an unpleasant quarrel, she nevertheless broached the subject with Donna. As had become her usual habit, Donna made to take the letter immediately upstairs and read it there, but stopped when Diana cleared her throat gently.

"Donna…could we talk for a moment?"

The letter disappeared into a pocket. "Of course," she smiled, sitting down again. "What is it you would like to discuss?"

"These letters."

Donna blinked innocently, though a blush rose to her cheeks. "Oh? What about them?"

"I know who they're from."

"Of course you know who they're from!" Diana smiled. "Mildred, I told you."

Diana gave her a would-be stern look. "Please don't try and lie to me, sister. You know it's useless."

Donna reddened further, and she made no answer to that, either denial or affirmation. "I don't have to tell you all the details of my life, Diana."

"Of course you don't," Diana replied. "And I would never expect you to. You're a grown woman, and under most circumstances I trust you to act with perfect propriety and sense."

Donna barely stifled a snort at that. She knew—as well as Diana did—that propriety was one of her most hated social customs, and she preferred to rely on the heart far more often than the head. "Under _most _circumstances?" she asked sharply. "But obviously not in this one?"

"I still trust you to act responsibly," Diana told her softly. "But I am concerned that you may get hurt."

"Then you needn't," Donna said crisply. "I am in no danger of being hurt."

"Are you so sure of that? Donna, I am happy you have found someone with whom you can form such an…affectionate friendship—but I highly doubt it has a long future, unless it stays at friendship. If you can assure me it will, then I will withdraw and trust your emotional well-being to your own good sense. However…"

"You don't trust me?"

"I _do _trust you," Diana emphasised. "You're my sister, Donna, you must know this comes only from concern for you."

"As I keep telling you, there is no need to be concerned! My heart—wherever it may be—is in safe hands."

"I'm sure it is, but it may not be your choice, or indeed Mr Greyson's, in the end."

Donna's cheeks flamed now, but again, she didn't deny it. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, he is Mr Wayne's heir, and Mr Wayne is the richest man in England. You are neither rich, nor high-born, not anymore. In fact, our family's reputation could hardly be worse. There is no possibility he will allow you to marry Mr Greyson. And if he does, then there is every chance Dick will be cut off."

"As if that would matter to me!" Donna said scornfully.

"Have you considered it might matter to him?" Diana asked quietly.

"It wouldn't! Not for a moment!"

"You can't know that, dearest. He seemed like a good man when we met him, yes, but since then you have only communicated with him by letter, and it is easy to deceive in letters-"

"Stop it!" Donna snapped, standing. "Stop it! I will not sit her and listen to you badmouth him, Diana! You have no idea what kind of man he is! He is honest and good and pure of spirit! He writes with such artlessness, such eloquence and truth of feeling!"

"Donna, I just want you to be happy-"

"Yes? Then you can leave me alone!" With that, she stormed from the parlour, slamming the door behind her.

Diana sank into her seat with a weary sigh. "That went well…"

* * *

Donna did not speak to her for a very long time afterward. At least, it felt like a long time, probably because Diana had become so used to having a very close bond with both of her sisters, but with Donna especially. Sometimes she was convinced that they could be twins, if not for the difference in their ages. Certainly, Diana's heart went through all that Donna's did—except she governed it with a rather firmer hand. Was that so wrong? Sometimes Donna made her think that she was somehow less than she should be, because she didn't let her true feelings show. But then Donna did not have the title of 'Head of Household' resting on her shoulders. Diana wished she didn't. It was an immensely heavy burden sometimes. Especially when she did not have the cushion of wealth to help her.

Both sisters avoided the tension in the house as much as possible, with Donna escaping to draw or paint nearly the whole countryside, and for Diana there was no shortage of tasks around the cottage that needed to be done. They still had meals together, but Diana worried that their closeness might be diminishing. She almost considered simply telling Donna that she had been right—it was none of Diana's business, she was sure that Dick Greyson _was _the perfect gentlemen Donna thought him to be, and that she no longer had any fear that her sister's heart was about to be broken. If she believed any of those things, of course. But truth was the cornerstone of Diana's character. If she gave that up—even to soothe the heart of someone so dear to her—then she would have very little right to look in any looking glass any time soon. No, she would have to find some other way of breaking the ice with Donna. There was a little money left over from this week's budget, so she could order some new drawing materials for Donna. She had mentioned she was becoming a little low on supplies. That had been a few weeks ago, so she must be even lower now.

She walked into town and spent a long time in the artists' supply shop, examining the wares and sorting through things before making her choice and paying for the materials. The shopkeeper handed her the packet wrapped in brown paper with a smile. "Will there be anything else, Miss Prince?"

"No, thank you. Good day to you."

"We hope to see you again soon. Goodbye."

Donna was more than intelligent enough to recognise the gift for what it was: an olive branch. She took it with good grace. "Thank you, sister. It's very thoughtful."

"You mentioned you were low."

"Indeed." For a moment, she looked at Diana as though unsure if she was about to break into another warning, and looked gratified when she did not. There was a pause, then Donna started the first conversation she had in over a week. "When when is Miss- Mr and Mrs Kent expected back?"

"Very soon, I should think. I received a letter from Lois telling me they were stopping in York, and that was a few days ago. Hopefully they should not be long in coming home."

"I expect it will be a relief for Martha, having her son home again."

Diana smiled. "Actually she says she's been glad of the peace and quiet, though I'm sure she was joking. Of course it's natural that she should have missed him."

A silence fell then, their two absent parents hovering in the room. It seemed to Diana she could almost see them; Mother, a book on ancient Greece in her lap, smiling fondly as though she had been there herself and were merely recollecting it all. And Father, not doing anything, just sitting and surveying his family proudly. He had not often been home—at least not before he had taken semi-retirement—so when he was, he always said he had to absorb everything he could about his girls.

"You should write to Cassandra," Diana said, trying to banish the fanciful image. "Every time I write to her she asks me for news of you."

"I will."

"Good."

Another pause, then Donna sighed. "I am sorry, Diana. I hate it when we quarrel."

"As do I."

"Perhaps we have simply been too long without company," Donna smiled ruefully. "Familiarity breeds contempt after all, even between sisters as close as we."

"Very possibly," Diana admitted. "Another reason it will be good to have Lois back."

Company required their presence as soon as Lois and her husband arrived back in the country, as it turned out. There were obliged to pay their respects to the bride anyway, of course, and they had not been in the room fifteen minutes before an invitation to a picnic was procured.

"A picnic? In weather such as this?"

"Well, it is only an idea at the moment," Lois reasoned, "but even if it is unseasonable, I am sure a way will be found. Can it not, Clark?"

Mr Kent eyed his wife with amusement. "I believe Miss Prince may be right, dearest. It is very cold outside."

"Oh, you are both spoiling my fun. This is what I get for surrounding myself with terribly sensible people. In that case, can we at least hold a ball? The barn is big enough, you must give me that."

"And is also cold," Clark pointed out. "How about a dinner party, instead? We can still invite all our friends, no one need catch an illness coming to it..."

For the next week, Diana almost lived at Kent Farm, and almost bored out of her mind. She had no idea why Lois was being so…_female _about everything. And she was not being the sort of female Diana cared to spend any time with, nor the kind of female she had thought Lois to be. Convinced that she could not have misjudged her friend for all the time they had known one another, Diana sought to understand what the problem was. It was easier than listening to yet another list of possible guests.

"I wonder if we should invite the Dashwoods…" Lois mused.

Diana did not bother to stifle her yawn. "Lois, Mr and Mrs John Dashwood are dreary, selfish, cold people with whom you share no sympathy whatever. A better question would be why would you _think _about inviting them?" Lois had the grace to blush, and while she searched around for an answer, Diana pressed her advantage. "And for that matter, when exactly did you become so concerned over who to invite for a dinner? What is wrong, Lois? Really?"

"Nothing."

Diana folded her arms. "Lois."

Mrs Kent sighed and cast her eyes towards the ceiling. "You'll think me silly."

"I already think you silly. Give me the real reason for your odd behaviour and I might think you merely strange," Diana replied, with a hint of a smile.

Catching the teasing note clearly, Lois also managed a self-conscious smile. "It's… It's being married."

Whatever Diana had been expecting, it was not that. She knew Lois loved her husband, and vice versa, and she knew that they were very happy together. Had something changed? She did not expect to be privy to everything that might go on in a marriage between husband and wife, but she thought - and hoped - that Lois would trust her enough to confide in her if something was truly wrong. She adopted a neutral expression and enquired, "How so?"

"There seem to be so many expectations, expectations that simply were not present before. Now that I am Mrs Clark Kent, not Miss Lois Lane, I feel I must be elegant in a way I am not suited to."

"That is ridiculous."

"Perhaps easy for you to say, Diana. You are both unmarried and perpetually elegant."

Amused and flattered by that, Diana helped to rearrange the guest list one last time, this time making sure it listed names belonging to people whose company everyone would enjoy. Once it was finalised, Diana wondered if perhaps there was something Lois might do to help her. After all, they both had a younger sister, and while Diana was unfamiliar with Lucy Lane's character, she was of a similar age to Donna. It was worth asking, at any rate.

"Lois—forgive my rudeness, but has your sister ever formed an…attachment?"

Lois chuckled. "Lucy is forever forming attachments, each as unsuitable as the last. Why?" she asked shrewdly. "Has Donna?"

"I am not sure. I think so, yes. And I've no idea how to speak to her frankly about it. About how unsuitable it is."

"_You _do not know how to speak frankly? I find that hard to believe."

"I know, but when I did try to speak directly, she became angry and we quarrelled. But I am very concerned for her. I believe there is a very possibility she will have her heart broken."

Lois frowned. "How unsuitable is unsuitable?"

"Almost impossibly so. But you know Donna—where love is involved, or where she thinks it is involved, reason has no place, and nor does reserve or composure. I do not wish to stand in the way of her happiness, but I don't think I am. Unfortunately she does."

Lois was silent for a moment, then she said, "Lucy, when she makes a fleeting attachment, is often distracted by other events—either by fresh society or the season in town. Might it not work the same way with Donna?"

"It may do, I suppose," Diana reasoned. "But I've no idea where new society might come from, and as for town-! It would be massively beyond our reach."

Lois held up a finger, got up and rummaged around in a dresser, pulled out a letter. "I may be able to help there."

"Oh?"

"I had a letter from Dinah—I mean Mrs Queen, a few days ago. She has invited Clark and I to a picnic at their estate, in five weeks' time. She writes that we should bring with us anyone else we might approve of in the neighbourhood. I certainly approve of you, and I remember you've met before, haven't you?"

"Yes, Mr and Mrs Queen were kind enough to drive Donna and I home after your wedding."

"Well then. It is bound to be a large party, it is not _too _far away, and there will be some young company for Donna. Company far away from her unsuitable suitor."

* * *

**A/N: Would it be too much to ask for a review? Things will start kicking off properly in the next chapter, so don't give up or be discouraged by this slightly dull one. **


	7. Shakespeare

**I've published the book! _Arthur's Witch: The Priestess_ is now available on Kindle and Smashwords, and you can download the sample for free, so it's gotta be worth a look! The blurb is below.**

_**Morgan le Fay is a woman shrouded in infamy. The original wicked witch, she is responsible for bringing the golden age of Arthur to a catastrophic end. Though evil guile, ruthless ambition and petty jealousy, she stood against the light of Britain's first Christian King, her own brother. She watched an entire kingdom burn. A subhuman monster who consorted with demons and became the Devil's mistress. **_

_**Or a woman shrouded in mystery. The original fairy godmother, she is responsible for creating the golden age of Arthur from the ground to the ramparts of Camelot. Though passion, purity of spirit and selflessness, she stood against the religious perversion which invaded her homeland and corrupted her King, her own brother. She protected an entire kingdom as a mother would a child. A High Priestess whose name and legend have been besmirched and besmeared by lesser men.**_

_**Her own story. Now told.**_

* * *

**A/N: Believe me, this chapter is as unexpected for me as it is for you. The muses held a choral concert for me while I wasn't looking. Enjoy! **

**Chapter Seven - Shakespeare  
**

Queen Park lay in Hertfordshire, some significant distance from Kent Farm and Dashwood Cottage, so a night in an inn was required at the halfway point of their journey. It was possible that their acquaintance with Mr and Mrs Queen was too slight for Diana and her sister to travel such a long way for a mere day party, but when she had put forward the idea to Donna, her sister had responded with such enthusiasm that Diana was convinced the merits of the trip far outweighed any social niceties. Indeed, Donna was still excited now, leaning from the carriage window with an eager smile on her pretty face, her fingers tapping in her lap and craning her neck to see around the next bend in the road. The weather outside was quite fine for the time of year, and the sunshine was warm, the wind level low. It was Diana's favourite season, the spring. The sunlight shifting through the trees was somehow lighter than in summer, paler and less oppressive, especially when it hit upon the lively green of new leaves.

The journey had been much quicker than a lot of others Diana had known, mainly because of the good company. She and Clark had struck up an interesting conversation about news from the continent, about which he had no qualms talking, thankfully. It was comforting to know that he did not think either she or Donna represented any kind of threat to imperial security because of their father. If he had, then topics involving France, Prussia or America would soon have ground to a halt. As Clark was the foreign affairs editor of the _Daily Planet_, conversing at all would have been difficult if that were the case.

Donna pulled her head back inside the carriage with a broad smile on her face. "I think we've arrived!" she said breathlessly, as they went through a grey stone gateway.

"You seem very excited, Miss Donna," Lois noted, "considering you've not met Mr and Mrs Queen above once."

"True," Donna agreed, "but it has been so _dull_ stuck inside Gloucestershire with nowhere to go and no one to talk to. I long for London sometimes, and less boring people."

"Donna!" Diana frowned.

"Oh, Mr and Mrs Kent know I don't mean _them_," Donna replied impatiently, looking out of the window once more.

"I can only apologise for my sister," Diana said.

"No need, no need. A party is always cause for anticipation and excitement."

Clark checked his pocket watch. "Eleven 'o' clock. We may be among the last to arrive."

The main house was almost painfully large and even bigger than the home the Prince sisters had grown up in. It was set in beautiful parkland, a herd of deer grazing quietly as they trundled past. When they pulled up outside, and descended from the carriage, they were shown into the sun room, and greeted by their hosts. Oliver and Dinah Queen showed equal hospitality and warmth to Diana and Donna as they did Mr and Mrs Kent, and they were all instantly made to feel welcome. As tended to happen in large parties, the women and the men congregated together, with their own topics of conversation and separate interests. On this rare occasion, both Diana and Donna found they had intelligent and stimulating conversation to immerse themselves in, but only the elder sister did so. As it turned out, Donna had something quite different in mind.

Donna was a clever young woman. Diana had known that all her life, and had been happy and joyful in the sisterly relationship of true equals, which simply could not have developed without it. She had never before known Donna to be devious, however. And yet when they were within company, she had pulled Diana into a conversation with Mrs Queen, about aspects of her life in India that she must have known would be fascinating to Diana. And, indeed, they were. By the point in the discussion about something called 'yoga', Diana was thoroughly engrossed. Mrs Queen was a truly interesting and amusing character, an acquaintance whom Diana would happily call a friend—when the appropriate time and discourse had elapsed, of course. She could hardly allow for friendship when they had met only once before. Nevertheless, there did seem to be friendly warmth reciprocated on Mrs Queen's part; at any rate, she was conversing animatedly.

"So the Indians have been practicing this 'yoga' for a long time?" Diana asked.

"Oh, centuries before Europeans arrived. It's a truly ancient technique of relaxation. Well, more than simple relaxation, really—the meditation helps one to focus one's mind, clear thoughts and achieve a sense of…peace with oneself and the world. I have had many insights I would not otherwise have experienced, through the use of yoga."

Diana's eyes widened. "You practice it yourself?"

"Certainly. Its value may not be recognised by the West as it is the East, but I have found it to be of great benefit. Even if my guests would not feel the same about practicing an Indian custom."

"On the contrary, I would be very interested in learning more about it."

"Then I believe you would be a rare example, Miss Prince. We British do seem to like the idea that anything good from India must have originated with ourselves to begin with."

"Quite ridiculous."

"Utterly so. More tea?"

At some point in the discussion about the properties of yoga to strengthen the limbs and improve flexibility (Diana was not entirely sure what 'flexibility' meant, but she was sure it would be quite improper to ask), Donna had disappeared, excusing herself politely and discreetly walking away. Diana had assumed she had seen a friend or acquaintance, and fallen into conversation with them. It was not until a walk down to the fruit and vegetable gardens was proposed, to see how the strawberries were progressing, that Diana thought anything about her sister's absence might be odd.

* * *

Donna crept into the walnut grove with her heart fluttering inside her chest. She'd no reason to be nervous, she reminded herself. He would be here, she knew he would. Still, the thrill of what they were doing was undeniable.

She felt a little (perhaps more than a little) prickle of guilt when she thought of Diana and the letter she had left for her, but she also knew this was the only way. She loved Dick, loved him truly, and telling Diana what they intended would definitely had led to Diana alerting Bruce Wayne, and Dick had been adamant doing so would only lead to more trouble. There had been months of difficult waiting, with only two clandestine meetings to keep themselves going—the last one of which, Dick had proposed to her. It had been _such _a trial, for both of them, hiding the truth from those closest to them, but now the time for hiding was over. Donna hoped she had been able to conceal the flush of love in her face on returning home the last time, but apart from the one confrontation about the letters, Diana remained oblivious. It was unusual; she was very observant and had a gift for finding the truth in anything, but Donna suspected she had been preoccupied with troubles of her own. And if she chose not to share her problems with Donna…well, Donna could hardly be blamed for doing the same.

There was a noise in the trees ahead of her, and Donna stopped walking, wondering if she should call out or just hide. Finally she decided to do neither, and simply waited. Then-

"Donna? Is that you?"

At the sound of Dick's voice, she let out a great sigh of relief and smiled widely. "Yes. Yes, I'm here."

He stepped out from behind a tree, also beaming. "You look beautiful, Miss Prince."

* * *

The vegetable and fruit gardens were terraced, with the steps heading down to each steep and a little slippery from rain earlier in the day. Diana did not hesitate at the top, though the ladylike thing to do would probably have been to wait for a gentleman to help her down. It did not occur to Diana to do so, so she was surprised when a male hand presented itself at the bottom few steps to assist her down.

She took it, walked down the steps, then gave the customary curtsey to Bruce Wayne. "Thank you, Mr Wayne."

He bowed. "Miss Prince."

"How nice to see you again. I had no idea you knew Mr and Mrs Queen."

"Oliver and I went to school together."

"You seem to be very well connected, Mr Wayne."

"I've been fortunate in my friends," he said modestly.

"As have I."

They walked down the rest of the terraces together, making the kind of elegant small talk they ought; about the weather, their families, the roads and other such nonsense. Diana thought there was something else he wanted to say, but had no idea what that might be. Besides, she was now convinced Donna was not here. Almost everyone of the party was them, but her sister was nowhere to be seen.

Mr Wayne caught her look and raised a dark eyebrow. "You are looking for someone?"

"My sister. I cannot see her."

"It is a large estate. Perhaps she merely wandered away from the group."

"Perhaps," Diana agreed, though another thought struck her; Donna was gone, and Bruce Wayne was here… She cleared her throat and enquired in a would-be light tone, "Your ward is not with you today?"

"Dick? Yes, he's here, somewhere. I think he was headed towards the walnut grove."

Diana nodded and changed the subject, fervently hoping that if she happened to run into Dick Greyson, Donna would keep a cool head.

* * *

Donna grinned, blushing. "Thank you."

He took her hands and lifted them, kissing both. "I've missed you, Donna."

"Every moment has been torture."

"Torture's over now, my darling. You weren't followed?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm sure I managed to get away unnoticed."

Noticing the pensive expression on her face, Dick lifted her chin so he could look her in the eye. "Donna, if you don't want to do this-"

"I've never wanted to do anything more than I want to do this," she interrupted quickly. "It's just..."

"Your sister."

"This is going to hurt her terribly."

"Only temporarily. Once we're married, once we're settled, you can explain fully. There'll be no shame, no lasting anger. All any sister could want for you to be happy, surely?"

Donna nodded, smiling again. "You're right. I know you're right."

He held out a hand. "Then shall we?"

* * *

The rain began just in time for lunch to be served, taking everyone by surprise. The last time Diana had looked at the sky, it had been cloudless and blue. But then that had been some time ago. Bruce Wayne was a diverting and charming—if slightly too charming—companion, and while she had initiated conversation with the eventual aim of bringing the topic around to her father, she had become genuinely interested in his replies. In the manner of excellent conversation, the discourse had flowed from one subject to another with little pause or wish on either side for the other to cease talking. So far, history, politics, business and literature had been discussed, with the conversation now resting on Shakespeare.

When the rain began falling, the ladies' parasols immediately became impromptu umbrellas, though the precipitation was light and more refreshing than anything. Diana, who had never owned a parasol in her life, paid it no further mind other than to express her surprise. Seeing she had no cover, Mr Wayne immediately removed his coat for her to put about her shoulders. With a smile, Diana politely refused the kind offer.

"Are you certain?" he pressed. "It would not do for you to catch a chill, Miss Prince."

"I've caught chills before, Mr Wayne, and always lived through them. Besides, it is not a cold day, I have my shawl and we are nearly back to the house."

She hoped her confidence was conveyed to him—she did not want this man to think less of her, think that later, when she asked him about her father, she could not bear the weight of the truth he had to give her. It seemed to be the case.

With a smile, he put his jacket back on and continued with their discussion. "What about you, Miss Prince? Which character do you identify with most?"

"Well, at the moment I feel rather like Desdemona, buffeted from all sides by things I cannot control, and at the mercy of the invisible barbs of evil gossip," she replied honestly. "Though I hope my end will be rather less sticky than hers, when it comes."

He was smiling. "Forgive me, Miss Prince, but I would never have likened you to Desdemona."

"Oh? Then who? Juliet? Viola?"

"Viola is closer, perhaps, since like her I imagine there is more to you than first appears. But even she is not a good fit."

Diana smiled. "I think I see your goal, Mr Wayne."

"And it is?"

"The shrew, naturally."

He gave a self-conscious grin. "I was heading for Katherina, but not for any negative cause. Far be it from me to argue with the Bard, but…I never thought of Katherina as a shrew. Nor did I particularly like the ending of the play."

"I agree entirely," Diana replied. "Though I remember there being some debate over whether her final speech is intended to be mockery, in fact, if Shakespeare is not provoking sarcasm at man's idea of the 'perfect' woman."

"Sarcasm is not well-looked on in terms of wit," Bruce pointed out. "And I doubt Shakespeare himself used it often."

"I am sure he _did_," Diana replied. "In either case, any mistake he made in that play come only at the end. Before the taming, Katherina is exactly what she ought to be."

"And what is that?"

"A woman."

"Then you look down upon women who submit themselves to their fathers and husbands, as the law requires them to do—as God requires them to do? Are those who do so _less _than they should be?"

There was a definite note of enjoyment in his voice now—Diana did not believe he was provoking her through any spite, merely relishing an interesting and slightly controversial discussion. So she did not give the polite answer, she gave the honest one. "One of our greatest strengths as women is the ability to bend, to flow around any force attempting to change us. It takes a great deal of pressure to make any women truly break. Less, I have observed, to break a man."

"So the fairer sex is not the weakest?"

"By no means. You may have the advantage of physical strength, Mr Wayne, but is it not the spirit which is immortal, and the body that withers? Perhaps there is more for men to learn from women than contemporary civilisation would allow."

"I confess, Miss Prince, that has not been my experience."

"So you have _never _met a woman who surprised you?"

He paused. "I have met one," he said, with such a direct look and tone as to leave no room for doubt who he meant.

Diana felt her cheeks heat. That had not been her intention—fishing for compliments was one of her most despised social habits in others—but before she could many suitable reply, they had arrived back at the house. Mr Wayne bowed civilly to her and turned away, leaving Diana staring after him.

* * *

**A/N: Told you Bruce would be back - review please!**


	8. Search

**I've published the book! _Arthur's Witch: The Priestess_ is now available on Kindle and Smashwords, and you can download the sample for free, so it's gotta be worth a look! The blurb is below.**

_**Morgan le Fay is a woman shrouded in infamy. The original wicked witch, she is responsible for bringing the golden age of Arthur to a catastrophic end. Though evil guile, ruthless ambition and petty jealousy, she stood against the light of Britain's first Christian King, her own brother. She watched an entire kingdom burn. A subhuman monster who consorted with demons and became the Devil's mistress. **_

_**Or a woman shrouded in mystery. The original fairy godmother, she is responsible for creating the golden age of Arthur from the ground to the ramparts of Camelot. Though passion, purity of spirit and selflessness, she stood against the religious perversion which invaded her homeland and corrupted her King, her own brother. She protected an entire kingdom as a mother would a child. A High Priestess whose name and legend have been besmirched and besmeared by lesser men.**_

_**Her own story. Now told.**_

* * *

**A/N: Muses still singing! Enjoy the chapter, and thank you for all the reviews :) **

**Chapter Eight - Search  
**

In the next moment, Diana found herself being joined once more by Mrs Queen. "I must apologise for the weather, Miss Prince," she smiled. "I specifically ordered fine sunshine to last the entire day."

Diana smiled. "Alas, I do not think the Weather Company Limited is very efficient these days."

"Well, happily the joy of a picnic is that cold meats can just as easily be served indoors as out, so it will not be too much bother. With any luck it will clear by this afternoon and the party can continue as planned."

In answer, there was a rumble of thunder from overhead, a strong gust of wind and a three-fold increase in the volume of rain, followed by the immediate dashing of all the guests inside the house. Both Diana and Mrs Queen were laughing heartily by the time they stopped inside the hallway. With a smile, the mistress of the house left her, to organise the servants, while Diana went in search of her sister. For once, she was glad Cassandra was not here—she loved the rain, and it would have been impossible to prevent her from becoming soaked through and possibly quite ill. Easter was only a few weeks away, and hopefully Cassie would be able to come home for a few days. Diana fervently hoped they would be a dry few days. At least Donna had no particular love of getting wet.

Diana wandered into the drawing room—another vast space, though decorated very tastefully in pale green and gold—looking for her sister. She first saw Lois and Clark, followed by a few other acquaintances with whom she exchanged a few words of civil conversation. Outside, the rainstorm grew in ferocity, so that the air was almost opaque with water. Still, Donna was nowhere to be seen.

Seeing the increasingly worried look on her friend's face, Lois detached herself from her husband and moved over to Diana. She touched her elbow gently. "Diana?"

"Have you seen Donna? I cannot believe she would be outside in the rain but I cannot find her anywhere." Worse still, she suddenly realised, she could not see Dick Greyson either. _Hera, Donna, please do not have done anything foolish…_

As four eyes were better than two, Lois joined Diana in looking for Donna. It was a very large house, with so many rooms Diana lost count, so it took a long time to firmly establish that Donna was nowhere inside. Seeing that the rain was not going to stop, a lot of the guests had begun to drift home, regretfully arranging to do the day over later on in the year. Those who remained were not ignorant of Donna Prince's disappearance.

Everyone was doing their best to keep Diana calm, which largely consisted of endless cups of tea. "More tea, Miss Prince?"

Diana's eyebrow twitched. "If I drink anymore tea, I think I am liable to turn into a tea bush, Mr Queen."

She appreciated it, but she was too torn between extreme worry and intense anger at Donna's behaviour. Whatever she was doing—assuming she was not unconscious in a ditch somewhere—she must know what she was putting her sister through. She ignored the next question, instead looking over to the window to where Bruce Wayne was standing, arms behind his back and shadowed eyes on the rain outside. He did not look at Diana as she joined him, and she spoke quietly.

"They've been writing to one another."

"Yes, I know," he said quietly. Diana recognised the same note as of desperation and helplessness in his voice; it was the same one she had had in her voice all the time recently.

"The park is large, and without at least a curricle they'll not have gone far."

He turned to her. "Send out?"

She nodded. "Send out."

He swivelled around to face the rest of the room. "Queen, would you kindly have a groom ready my horse?"

"I'll have him ready my own," Oliver Queen nodded, "and one for Mr Kent." He called to a servant and said, "Have three horses made ready, Crawford."

"Four," Diana said, stepping forward.

"Five," Lois added, standing.

Mrs Queen also got to her feet. "Make that six, Crawford."

Bruce Wayne frowned. "I hardly think-"

"She is my sister, Mr Wayne, and my responsibility. I am a very capable rider, and another pair of eyes will be undeniably useful," Diana said, her voice quiet but charged with strength.

Mr Wayne nodded. "Very well. But there is no need for you two other ladies to expose yourselves to the elements as well," he said, addressing Mrs Queen and Lois.

"There is every need," Lois replied firmly. "Donna is very dear to me as well."

"And I know the land for twenty miles in every direction," Mrs Queen added stubbornly. "Crawford, six horses."

Oliver Queen frowned. "Dinah…"

She folded her arms. "Yes, Oliver?"

He sighed. "Crawford, six horses. At once."

The situation would have been amusing if it had not been so serious, and Diana felt a surge of gratitude to have such friends. Nowhere else in England would she have found two women so willing to help her, without question. While Crawford went to get their mounts ready, Mrs Queen took the other women upstairs to lend them more suitable clothes for dashing about in the rain. Diana was not shocked to see an array of exotic clothing in Mrs Queen's wardrobe, including some very eastern-looking ones. The clothes she presented Diana and Lois with were clearly of her own design. They were blouses, jackets, breeches and boots for riding, which she gave to them and then directed them to change behind a couple of screens. Diana have never worn clothes such as these before, and they were surprisingly comfortable, albeit close-fitting and rather masculine, or at least compared to anything else she had worn in the past. The boots were too small for her feet, so she simply left her shoes on and stepped out from behind the screen.

Mrs Queen was already dressed in a similar ensemble, and she eyed Diana with approval. "They fit, good. My own design—I wasn't sure."

"They're strange, but very practical, I'd imagine," Diana said, "especially for riding."

"Very. Can you ride astride or do you need a sidesaddle?"

"I've ridden astride since before I could walk."

Once Lois was ready too, they went back downstairs to where the gentlemen were waiting, with the horses. None of them batted an eyelid at the women's strange attire. The six of them went out into the rain and mounted swiftly.

"We should divide up, and meet back here in an hour, before dark," Mr Wayne said, assuming a commanding role that suited him so well Diana did not question it, and nor did anyone else. "The gardens first: the walled rose garden, the hot house and the rest."

"I'll do it," Mrs Queen said, turning her horse and riding swiftly away.

"Queen, the promontory," Mr Wayne pointed. "Search the hill and the area around it. Kent, the lake. Mrs Kent, you and Miss Prince should search the parkland. It will need two."

"And you?" Diana asked.

"The orchard and walnut grove."

That decided, they split up and galloped in their various allocated directions. Diana tried and failed to prevent her mind racing, but it screamed in every conceivable direction, flashing up all possible scenarios. Suddenly finding Donna unconscious in a ditch seemed like the most appealing prospect. No, Diana thought fiercely. Finding her safe was the best one, and it was the most likely. She had simply lost her way in the rain, she had taken shelter under a tree somewhere, she might develop a minor head-cold but no more, and Diana would nurse her back to health, as she always had since their mother had died.

Part of her reflected, logically, that even if Donna had done something unspeakably ill-advised, there could hardly be any more dishonour for the family name than already stained it. Still, Diana knew the shame and humiliation would hang over her heavily. Her father and mother were dead; it was up to her to hold the family together, keep them happy and whole. It was her responsibility, her duty—and she was failing.

After a long time searching (and Diana had not stopped when darkness fell) she had to admit that that Donna was nowhere on the Queen estate. And neither was Dick Greyson. Diana had no idea who she was angrier at—him, Donna, or herself. Why had Donna never told her things had got this far? _How _had they got this far? She was the head of the Prince family, her permission should have been sought, they should have courted openly, if that was what they were doing! How could they-

"Diana," came Lois' soft voice. "It's dark and they're not out here. Come, let's go back to the house. We both need to dry off, eat something and plan our next step."

"I cannot simply give up!" Diana cried, ignoring the tears mingling with the raindrops on her face.

"No one is suggesting you do, but how will you find Donna from a sick bed? You will make yourself ill before long," Lois countered, shaking her soaking brown hair from her eyes. "Please, Diana. For me."

Diana looked at her friend, seeing her shivering violently with cold and utterly soaked to the bone. She imagined she looked similar; certainly she could not feel her hands, white-knuckled around the reins. "Very well," she nodded. "Let's go in."

Lois breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

When they arrived at the main house, the horses were taken away to be stabled and they went inside to hot tea and warm towels. All the others were in there, apart from Mr Wayne. A few moments after Diana had sat down, he entered, also dripping wet.

"Anything?"

He shook his head. "I am afraid not."

Diana closed her eyes briefly, issuing a plea for help to any and all gods that may be listening. "This is like a nightmare."

Dinah Queen patted her shoulder comfortingly. "We will find her, Miss Prince, sooner or later. We will."

They were all being very kind, pretending as though Donna had disappeared alone. Diana looked over to Bruce Wayne, knowing that he must be thinking the exact same thing as she. Would it be unthinkable for her to ask if Dick's intentions were honourable? After all, honourable fathers did not always produce like-minded sons. She was not given the chance to question him, however, since Crawford, the servant, knocked on the door and entered the room. He bore a sealed paper on a silver platter.

"Message just arrived for Miss Prince, sir," he said to Mr Queen.

Diana snatched it from the plate, ripping it open with such force that the wax drove itself painfully under her nails. The handwriting was Donna's, unmistakably. The letter was short.

_My dearest sister, _

_ I know you will be frantic by now, and I am so sorry for that. I am safe, and I need you to know that this was the only possible avenue available to us._

From around her, Diana was dimly aware of the others bursting into questions, and Bruce Wayne silencing them with a single gesture. She continued reading.

_I wanted to tell you, Diana, so many times, but each time I said to myself I would it it, I knew it would be impossible for you to understand. We love each other you see, Dick and I. Beyond any other consideration. And we're going to be married and be happy. I will write to you again when we are settled—do try to forgive me in the meantime. Take care of Cassie. _

_ All my love,_

_ Donna_

Shaking, dry-eyed and silent, Diana held out the letter to Bruce. He took it, read it quickly and then nodded once, also silent. He folded it back up and gave it back to her. Diana did not want to take it from his palm, but she did so, slipping it into a pocket.

"How could she?" she whispered. "How could she?"

"Is she…safe, at least?" Lois asked quietly.

"She's safe."

There was another long and protracted silence, then Bruce Wayne spoke. "Where would she want to go?"

He seemed to be speaking to himself as much as anyone, but Diana had an answer for him. "London," she said. "All I can think is London. Donna was talking about how much she wanted to be there earlier today."

"They could not get to London in one day," Clark said, then realised what he had assumed. "Um, that is to say-"

"It is alright, Mr Kent. No one is in any doubt, I am sure," Diana said faintly.

"Then should we not ride along the post road, calling at the inns they might be using?"

"No point," Bruce said. "At the very least they will be travelling under a false name, and Dick will not be using the obvious routes into London. I've taught him too well for that," he added, a note of bitter irony in his tone. "In any case, I'll go to London immediately, and begin the search there."

"We'll follow in the morning," Lois said, squeezing Diana's hand. "And rendezvous with you when you have more news."

He nodded. "Very well. Until then." He bowed to them all, but then held out a hand to Diana. "Miss Prince, if I may have a moment?"

She took it and prepared herself for a diatribe as he led her into the hallway, as best she could anyway. Instead, she found herself looking into warm blue eyes and a compassionate expression. "I will find your sister, Miss Prince. This is my fault as much as it anyone's—I knew Dick was planning something…"

Diana shook her head. "I do not see how it can be. And if it _is_, then the fault is also mine. We have both failed in our vigilance, Mr Wayne. If I could, I would go with you now," she confessed, looking down and away from his gaze. She knew how improper such a sentence was, but it was the truth.

He took her hand and pressed it, making her look back up at him. "Then we shan't fail again."

Without another word, he kissed her hand and strode back out into the rain, calling for his horse. Very quickly, he was lost to the night.

* * *

**A/N: Review please!**


	9. Advertisement

**I've published the book! _Arthur's Witch: The Priestess_ is now available on Kindle and Smashwords, and you can download the sample for free, so it's gotta be worth a look! The blurb is below.**

_**Morgan le Fay is a woman shrouded in infamy. The original wicked witch, she is responsible for bringing the golden age of Arthur to a catastrophic end. Though evil guile, ruthless ambition and petty jealousy, she stood against the light of Britain's first Christian King, her own brother. She watched an entire kingdom burn. A subhuman monster who consorted with demons and became the Devil's mistress. **_

_**Or a woman shrouded in mystery. The original fairy godmother, she is responsible for creating the golden age of Arthur from the ground to the ramparts of Camelot. Though passion, purity of spirit and selflessness, she stood against the religious perversion which invaded her homeland and corrupted her King, her own brother. She protected an entire kingdom as a mother would a child. A High Priestess whose name and legend have been besmirched and besmeared by lesser men.**_

_**Her own story. Now told.**_

* * *

**A/N: Don't ask me how I'm doing this, some strange spirit has possessed my fingers. Just enjoy it while it lasts, I know I am! **

**Chapter Nine - Advertisement  
**

He had trained him well… He had trained him _too _well. But to do what, Diana wondered? To evade the authorities, keep up a false persona? Why would any honest person do such a thing? Diana was utterly bewildered—it was a puzzle of Bruce Wayne, perhaps, but one she had no idea where to fit.

She had been pretending to be asleep for about the last hour, not wishing to see anymore of the heavy sympathy from Mr and Mrs Kent. They were all heading to the house the Kents kept in Bloomsbury, having left Queen Park early the day before. At the moment Diana was in a borrowed dress, which was ill-fitting, since she was a good deal taller than either of the other two women whose clothes had been available. Instructions had been sent home to Etta in Gloucestershire, for the majority of her clothes to be packed and transported to town, and for a few of her personal items too. She had no idea how long it might take to find Donna, if they even would. There were so many thousands of people thronging London's streets that the task seemed impossible even before it was begun.

"Diana, we're here," Lois said, touching her elbrow.

She opened her eyes, with a genuine yawn, having hardly slept either of the two nights before. The carriage pulled to a stop outside a handsome, three-story townhouse. It reminded Diana of one her parents had owned before everything had been shattered. She had not been privy to the exact amount of money it cost, but she knew it to be substantial. She glanced at Clark. A journalist had afforded this? The owner of a broadsheet, perhaps, but she found it difficult to believe an employee had such resources. General Lane must have been very generous with Lois' dowry.

Diana was shown to her room with every possible courtesy extended to her on the part of Mrs Kent. Her servants were at Diana's disposal, and anything she needed, no matter how small or large, would be provided, she had the full run of the house, any money she might need, et cetera, et cetera. Diana rinsed her face and hands and unpacked the few possessions she had brought with her, then made her way to the parlour. Having been served tea and made the usual compliments to the house, its rooms, proportions and furnishings, and then endured a horrible silence where no one knew what to say, Diana gave a huge sigh.

"I cannot apologise enough, to you both. This is a terrible imposition and you are both being so gracious. It is more than I deserve."

"Not at all. You and Donna and Cassie are practically family."

"I do not think you wish to be Donna's family. You have seen how little she thinks of us. Certainly she did not trust me enough to share her in confidence."

"Do not be too hard on her, Miss Prince," Clark said softly. "Love, especially when young, is a very potent force." He paused to take his wife's hand. "Lois and I almost eloped—we were engaged for so long only because her family was unsatisfied with my lack of fortune."

"But you did not elope, Mr Kent," Diana countered. "And as a result, you are both welcome in the home of each others' family. No scandal dogs you. Society does not shun you. You still married for love and yet caution played its natural part. It is possible that a little patience, some openness and sincerity to myself and Mr Wayne may have produced a similar outcome for Donna and Mr Greyson. If their attachment is so strong then what fear did they have of waiting for a time?"

"So you will not forgive her?" Lois asked.

Diana stood and paced over to the window. "I could more easily forgive her if I could forgive myself. I allowed this to happen, and I must come to terms with that. It was the wrong thing to do—and Donna should not have been ignorant of it. If she was, then the fault is mine. I did not teach her differently."

"Diana, your father died less than a year ago. Donna is nineteen years old; she knew perfectly well what she was doing. Forgive her, by all means, because you can hold no sin against yourself."

"I just wish I could speak to her, so she could tell me herself why she has done this. A letter, however heartfelt, is small consolation when compared to having my living, breathing sister with me."

Clark walked over to her, handing her a cup of tea. "Do not fear too much, Miss Prince. Bruce will find her."

"How?" Diana asked. "He is as wealthy as can be, yes, but what does any businessman know of detection?"

"Well, he is more than a mere businessman."

She frowned. "What more can he be?"

But Clark was frowning regretfully, and turning away. "I cannot say, Miss Prince. It is not mine to tell."

Perplexed, Diana looked out of the window again. "It does not matter," she murmured. "So long as he finds my sister I hardly care."

It was a lie though—she did care, a little at least. Mystery demanded truth to answer it. And truth was what Diana had always sought. Despite herself, despite the gravity of the situation, her curiosity was piqued, and her imagination tickled. If Bruce Wayne was not a businessman, then what was he?

* * *

Bruce Wayne did not come that day to Bloomsbury, though Diana started at every noise, every knock she fancied she heard at the door. She had spent the entire afternoon and evening sat in the window seat, searching the faces of everyone who passed by in the street below. She had no appetite, but took a little supper only to prevent Lois' good-hearted admonition. She definitely and firmly declined the offer of wine with dinner, and then brandy afterwards. Her nerves needed no alcohol to calm them.

The next day dawned very late for Diana—she had been awake long enough to see it encroach over the sky slowly. She had been writing notes to almost everyone of her previous acquaintance in London, people who probably would have slammed the door in her face had she gone to them in person. But she had no choice: she would do anything to find Donna. And it was better than weeping into her bedding every night in despair.

When the noises of the servants moving around filtered through the walls, she rose properly, getting dressed and going downstairs, pulled on her coat and bonnet. One of the maids opened the door for her, and she smiled in thanks.

"Please tell Mr and Mrs Kent I have gone for a walk, and will be back soon."

The main dipped a little curtsey to her. "Yes, ma'am."

It was by no means her first time in London, having come here many seasons with her mother and father since the age of sixteen, but the city no longer felt as welcoming and warm as it once had. It was dull, grey, full of angry and sneering people. Passers-by stared at her as she walked—whether because of who she was, because of her beauty and perhaps because it was so strange to see a young woman walking alone this early in the morning. She had no idea why she was even walking like this—it was unlikely she was going to find Donna wandering around London as she was doing. At the entrance to a park, she stopped, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to think logically.

London was a vast city, but from what Clark had said, Bruce Wayne would eventually find her, and she thought he had property here, or very near. So would they really stay in London, in the long-term? It could be that they would stay in the capital only for as long as it took to marry. Diana prayed they could find only sensible, reserved ministers who looked at the pair of them with their too-young, eager faces, and declined to marry them. It was not that Diana wanted her sister to be unhappy—just that she needed to be warned of every possible consequence before a marriage could take place. When, as he inevitably would, Mr Wayne dramatically reduced Dick's income, or removed it entirely, or disinherited him, did they have a plan? Or even an income? Did Dick have a profession? Diana doubted it—it was true she had no idea of his circumstances before his adoption by Mr Wayne, but he was a gentleman, and on the whole gentlemen did not _have _professions. Mr Kent was a rare example. So, when they were married and needed to find an income, where would they go? A lone American in London would be treated with disdain at best, and suspicion otherwise.

She stopped cold. "But an American in _America_? Great Hera," she whispered.

She hurried back to the house, finding Lois and Clark at breakfast. Clark had a newspaper open, while Lois seemed lost in thought. When Diana entered, they both looked relieved, though neither expressed it. Apparently they were worried she wouldn't come back.

"Diana, would you like some breakfast?"

"No, thank you. Mr Kent, I wonder if you might find something out for me."

He folded away his newspaper. "Anything."

"Could you find out when the next passenger ships sailing to the United Sates of America are, from any port: Southampton, Portsmouth, Plymouth, anywhere, all of them."

He caught on quickly, and turned slightly pale. "Do you think-?"

"That is my fear," she nodded.

He stood, kissed his wife and left the room directly. Diana sank into a seat. "I only pray I'm wrong. It will be hard enough to find her in London, let alone in another country…" Suddenly she slammed her fist down on the table, with a strangled sound of frustration, then immediately apologised to a startled Lois. "I am sorry. It's just I feel so helpless! At least at home there would be chores to do, things to keep my mind occupied—this is absurd! I am in London, Donna is _in _London and I can do nothing!"

"Sit down, Diana," Lois said crisply.

Diana blinked, unaware that she had stood at all. She obeyed her friend.

"Now, I insist you eat something, and while you eat, we shall be silent and you will think of something we _can _do. Neither you nor I have ever settled for what polite society has told us we must, Diana, and we are not going to start now. Am I right?"

Diana nodded. "You're right."

Lois nodded and pushed some warm bread towards Diana. She ate as directed and let her mind run free. In the country, she could give Donna's scent to some hounds and let them literally hunt for her. In the city it was impossible. She could contact the police; but Donna had not been kidnapped, and nor was she a thief. However, something that _was _possible…

"We could take out an advertisement in the evening newspapers," she said. "With Donna's description and saying how worried her family are—appeal for any information on her whereabouts."

Lois nodded. "Capital idea. Clark can put it in the _Daily Planet_, and we'll send it to the _Times _and the _Gazette_ as well ourselves."

They spent the next hour carefully drafting and redrafting the piece they were to put in the newspapers. It would have to be small in every paper except the _Daily Planet_—Diana could afford nothing larger. Lois offered some of her own money, of course, but she was already far too deeply in debt to the Kents.

Again feeling the need to go outside, Diana offered to walk the advertisement to the offices of the newspapers. Halfway down the road, she met Bruce Wayne. He bowed and she curtsied. He looked very harried, Diana noticed, whereas before she had only seen a smooth, polished exterior of a man who was unsettled by nothing. Diana knew he had not been successful before he said anything.

"You've not found them," she said.

He shook his head. "Where are you going, Miss Prince?"

"To deliver some notes, and to place an advertisement in some newspapers."

"Notes to whom, if I may ask?"

Diana sighed. "Anyone I could think of. They'll likely turn me away without condescending to speak to me, yet I feel anything must be worth an attempt."

He nodded. "I am impressed how well you are tackling this, Miss Prince."

"There is little point in panicking, Mr Wayne," she said coldly.

"I meant no offence, and certainly no surprise at your calm and resolve. But it is not what I would expect from most men, let alone women."

Diana only just avoided a snort. "If I were a man, I would be much more able to do something productive. As it is, words are the only power I have to wield in the search for my sister."

Their conversation was interrupted by two young women sweeping past them, one of whom bumped into Diana. She turned and apologised immediately, but they both heard her companion say clearly, "Why are you apologising, my dear? Don't you know who that woman _is_?"

Diana did not even really notice; she was used to barbs and gossip. She was the daughter of a traitor, the sister of a scandal, and if they did not know that yet then they all soon would. There was possibly something in her face, though, since Bruce spoke again, in a softer tone than before. "Miss Prince, I know this is not ideal, but you may at least know that Dick is not a capricious man; far less so than myself, in fact. They were writing to one another almost every day, and wherever they are…they intend to marry, and to not leave each other."

Diana nodded. "Could they have gone to America?" she asked, remembering her thought earlier in the day.

"It's possible. I've sent agents out there to look for them-"

"Agents?" Diana repeated sharply.

Bruce winced at the volume of her voice, and then glanced around them. "Not here."

* * *

**A/N: Review please!**


	10. Secrets

**A/N: Right, this is the re-do of this chapter. I realised that for some reason I hadn't put in the last bit of this chapter, and that it made _no_ sense without it.  
**

**Chapter Ten**

Diana frowned. "I'm afraid I do not understand you, Mr Wayne."

"I meant that there are certain subjects best discussed outside of the public domain."

"Then where, pray tell, may we discuss them?" she asked, days of not sleeping and overstretched nerves beginning to seep their tension into her voice.

"Would you have dinner with me, tonight, at my home?"

She raised an eyebrow. Surely he was not suggesting-? "And how many would our party consist of?"

At least he was direct. "Two. As I said, these matters are best discussed with a few people as possible being privy to them."

"For me to dine with you alone would be quite impossible, as I am sure you are aware. Good day to you, Mr Wayne."

He did not touch her, nor make any move she saw, but he managed to place himself in her path anyway. "Please, Miss Prince, I understand your hesitation, but I give you my word I would never do or say anything dishonourable towards you."

"You would not be given a chance," Diana said scornfully.

He smiled faintly. "This would only be to exchange information, explain to you the methods I intend to use in finding your sister—you have no idea of our true chances of success otherwise."

She hesitated still, the ethics and morals of almost twenty five years hanging over her. They were being bravely attacked by her curiosity though. He seemed so confident, and it was the confidence tat came from knowledge, not affectation. Finally she nodded. It would harm her reputation, but, as it had just been very clearly demonstrated, her reputation hung in tatters anyway.

"Very well," she said. "But not for dinner; for tea this afternoon, and I will stay for no more than an hour."

"More than acceptable. I will send the carriage for you at four 'o' clock."

He bowed, and Diana walked away asking herself what on earth she was doing. This was not only unwise, it was unorthodox, rash and left caution to be consumed by wolves. All for more information on a man she barely knew. But a man, she reflected, her father had told her to find if she ever needed help. That must mean he was trustworthy. It must. At least that was how she would be justifying it to herself, and to Mr and Mrs Kent when she returned to the house in Bloomsbury.

* * *

The diplomat made sure to stop his hand from shaking before he knocked on the door. His employer would sense his fear anyway, but there was little dignity in allowing him to see it.

"Enter."

"Good morning, sir."

"Well?"

The man unlocked a chest he had brought with him, and pulled out a vial of clear, viscous liquid. "The shipment from Hong Kong arrived this morning, sir."

The vial was snatched from him. "And it will work?"

"It should, sir. Our supplier was positive—as long as the subject has the previous disposition for the condition. If not then administering the oil will be fatal."

"That will not be a bother. All we need do in that case is choose a test subject who is disposable. You may go."

The diplomat automatically shrank from his employer, instinctively going towards the door as he had been ordered. But still, he felt that he must inquire. "Sir…how exactly might we test whether the oil has had the desired effect?"

"Leave that to me."

Dismissed, the diplomat scurried from the Whitehall office, leaving the other man alone. He walked to the window, looking out over the muck and slime of London. He fingered the vial in his hand lovingly. Soon…if this worked…soon he would cleanse this city of its underclasses, of the rats who squalled and begged for crumbs. And from London, England would follow. And where England went, the Empire inevitably followed.

There was another knock on the door, surer and firmer this time. The knock of his secretary, who respected but did not now why he should fear. "Enter."

"Sir, Mr Kent is here, from the _Daily Planet_."

"Kent?"

"The foreign affairs editor, sir. He made an appointment to speak to you about the situation in Bohemia."

The vial disappeared into a pocket. "By all means, send him in."

* * *

The carriage Mr Wayne had promised was prompt, and at four on the dot, Diana had spent most of the afternoon changing her mind back and forth about whether to go. She eventually decided she really must. If only for her own family's sake, there was an enigma here that she had determined to reach the bottom of. When the maid knocked on the drawing room door and announced that the carriage had arrived for Miss Prince, Lois—who had agreed with her logic—seemed slightly worried now.

However, she made no effort to prevent her going. "Please be careful, Diana."

"I will be."

The carriage journey was short, as the contraption took her swiftly out of London. The footman holding open the carriage door for her had been very polite, but they obviously had instructions not to delay. They did not go far, only to the far edge of Richmond, but it was enough to leave the hustle and bustle behind. They came to a gatehouse and then eventually to Wayne Manor. She had certainly expected it to be large, but she had not anticipated the hulk of gothic grandeur that confronted her. Despite the bright sunshine, it looked rather a grim, forbidding place. Exactly right for a man who kept secrets, she thought, and who lived alone.

She walked up the steps to find the huge front doors already open, and a smartly dressed, elderly man waiting for her. His diffident air identified him as a servant of some kind, but he had a friendly, open smile. He bowed as she reached him.

"Miss Prince. Welcome to Wayne Manor."

"Thank you, Mr…?"

"Pennyworth, miss. Alfred Pennyworth. I am Mr Wayne's butler. Please, do come in." She did so, and he took her coat and bonnet and then said, "This way please." They walked in silence for a few moments, and when they paused in front of a large doorway, Alfred said, "Please accept my condolences for the death of your father, Miss Prince. He was a truly great man."

Diana blinked, stunned. Bruce Wayne was one thing, but his butler had known her father too? What on earth was going on here? "Th-thank you," she managed.

She followed him through the house, up a flight of stairs and to a surprisingly well-lit room, which turned out to be a study. Bruce Wayne was sat at the large mahogany desk, looking through some papers.

"Your guest has arrived, sir," Alfred said.

"Thank you, Alfred. Bring us some tea, would you?"

Alfred went, and Bruce stood, bowing as she curtsied. "Thank you for coming, Miss Prince."

"I am still not sure I should be here at all," she replied honestly, taking a seat. "But I was curious, I will admit. You said you had sent out 'agents' to look for your ward and my sister. What did you mean?"

"Miss Prince, how much do you know about your father's career?"

"My father? What has he to do with this?"

"Much." At her dark look, he elaborated. "I am attempting to give you a sense of context, else you will not understand the rest of my answer."

Annoyed, Diana said, "He was a colonel in the army; he had a long and distinguished career; sacrificed his personal happiness many times during said career, and then quite unaccountably was arrested, tried and hanged for treason. Now, will you kindly explain why _precisely _you are raking through the worst period in my life? Especially since, as a I recall, you are as convinced as myself of his innocence."

Bruce's expression remained grave. "I am sorry, Miss Prince, I do not mean to wound you, and nor did I intend to remind you of painful moments."

"Then why have you?" she asked angrily.

At this point, Alfred entered again with tea. It apparently did not occur to Bruce that the conversation was inappropriate for the ears of a servant, since he continued. Diana attempted to ignore Mr Pennyworth and focus on what he said.

"Because your father, although his career started in the army, did not spend his entire career there. He, like me, worked within the secret service."

"Which is what?"

"A separate branch of the military, very small, reporting directly to the ruler of the land—now the Prince Regent."

"And operating in secrecy, presumably."

"Yes. We deal primarily in intelligence, and gather information from both the army and the navy, as well as from civilian sources. Indirectly, Mr Kent works for us, as well as directly for me personally, of course."

"So you are the head of this 'secret service'?" Diana asked, now not bothering to conceal the sarcasm in her tone. "And what are are you known as—the 'discretion division'?" She stood, shaking her head. "Thank you for the tea, Mr Wayne, but I did not come here to you could insult my intelligence and humiliate my family any more!"

"Miss Prince, I am perfectly serious."

"Oh yes, I can see that!"

She got to the door, and he grasped her shoulder. "Diana, please. One moment, and I will prove it to you."

She stopped, both shocked that he had addressed her in such a familiar way and half-convinced by the genuine plea on his voice. "How?" she asked over her shoulder.

"There are some paper on my desk; things that no one outside of government would be able to access, and most people not _inside _Whitehall."

She still hesitated, but then did go to the desk at the far end of the room. Bruce stayed by the armchairs and continued sipping his tea, apparently unconcerned she might find anything lacking. The confidence of the man that had been alluring was now only infuriating.

"Preposterous," she muttered.

She sat down at the desk, sorting through the letters, documents and other papers she found there. They did look official, some of them obviously state documents—occasionally one was scribbled over in red ink: _secret_. She recognised the signatures of famous politicians and noblemen. But these could all be forged, however clever they were… At the bottom of the pile, there was a letter written entirely in French. Diana spoke, read and wrote French very competently, and in her experience, something written in that language by a non-French citizen (unless the writer had lived in that country) would never be perfect. There would always be a mistake, no matter how tiny—a circumflex in the wrong place, for instance, or the tone might be wrong. This appeared to be a letter between friends (neither of whom was Bruce Wayne), so she searched for any additional formalities, anything that should not be present, anything that did not belong. She found nothing. On the sixth time of reading through it, scanning, she suddenly realised what an inflammatory piece of writing she had under her fingers. It was a letter, addressed to a high-ranking admiral in the British navy, from _Napoleon Bonaparte_.

She dropped the letter. "Exactly what are you involved in, Mr Wayne?"

"Exactly what I told you. It is my job to protect this nation, and the empire, from any and all threats it faces. There are some plots so insidious and subtle that turning cannon on them would be worse than useless. I swim in waters where there are no ships to help."

"And my father…he did this too?"

"Actually, he jointly founded the service. Spies have always existed, and we have been well organised since the days of Elizabeth I."

"Because of Sir Francis Walsingham?"

"Indeed. However, the Stuarts allowed the network to fall into decline, and eventually began to persecute us actively. When His Majesty came to the throne, men like your father saw there was a need for us again. We now serve His Royal Highness Prince George, until the king recovers."

"And what do you do with the information you gather?"

"It's used as a tactical advantage, that other countries will not have, be they enemies or allies. Sometimes it is simply stored; at others it can mean the differences between victory or defeat."

"Then if my father knew about this, if he provided such valuable intelligence to the empire, _why _was he convicted of treason?"

"Because there are not only British spies. And I believe convincing information was fabricated by another European power that incriminated your father."

"But if he was some kind of…of…_master _spy, then surely he could have proven his innocence!" Diana protested. "There must have been some way-"

"Precisely," Bruce nodded. "That is why I am convinced within myself that there was something else happening—a traitor very high in government, perhaps, or something I was meant to find that I did not… I cannot tell you, Miss Prince, that your father's death could not have been prevented, nor that it was not my fault. The truth is that I simply do not know."

Diana struggled for calm in the midst of all these revelations. "When I last saw him, just before- He kept saying that it would be better for him to die. That it was the only way. Do you think he was protecting something, or someone?"

Bruce nodded. "I've requisitioned most of your father's papers—but sifting through them is slow going."

"You have everything? All his diaries?" she demanded, frowning.

"Better a man who thinks him innocent than a man convinced of his guilt."

She could not argue the logic of that, though she disliked it. "Have you found anything?"

"Nothing, except something I cannot read. It looks like Ancient Greek."

"Show me," Diana commanded.

"You can read Ancient Greek?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"You _can't_?"

He smirked. "Touché."

He rose, crossed to a portrait of a man and woman, posing together in such an attitude of intimate happiness that she knew them to be a married couple. He ran his fingers down the side of the frame, then pressed a hidden catch and the painting swung forward on hinges she could not see. Embedded in the wall was a black metal square, with a dial, white numbers engraved on it. Bruce twisted the dial around one way and then the other, pausing occasionally while it clicked. Finally he pulled the door open with a creaking noise. Inside was a small cupboard, with piles of papers inside. He pulled out a bundle wrapped with red ribbon. Diana could not hide her interest.

"What is that?"

"That? I do not really have a name for it. But it is to keep important documents safe—it is fire retardant and extremely difficult to break into, were a thief to try."

"You invented it."

"Yes."

He handed the bundle to her, and immediately her attention was diverted. She ran her fingers over the familiar handwriting. _Pappa_… When she opened her eyes, having needed a moment to calm herself, Bruce was looking compassionately at her. In order to distract herself from the intensity of that look, Diana motioned to the portrait.

"Your parents?"

He glanced at it. "Yes."

"Were they involved in any of…this?"

He nodded. "My father and yours actually went to Cambridge together. Before Hector went to Sandhurst."

"And they did things like this together?"

"Before my father was murdered, yes," he said tightly.

Diana put her cup into its saucer with a sharp tap. "If what you've said is true, then my father was also murdered."

He did not apologise, but his tone was lighter the next time he spoke. "My mother was involved too, though not through any choice of her own at first."

"What can you mean?"

"My father intended to use her," he said, with a startling frankness. "He intended that she should be an unwitting asset, a source of information about the dealings of the American government—her father was the Secretary of Trade at the time."

"So what happened?" Diana asked. "Surely the deception did not extend into their marriage!"

"No—he fell genuinely in love with her and confessed everything. Then he proposed."

"She must have been a remarkable woman, to forgive him," Diana commented.

Bruce's eyes grew briefly warm. "She was."

Diana pulled the stack of letters towards her, sifting through them until she came to Hector's journal, bound in red leather. She leafed through the pages until English became a row of indecipherable—if neat—characters. What had been recorded in English had been nothing confidential, and certainly nothing that Diana would call inflammatory or valuable. The end few pages, however, were utterly different. All she could see were letters she recognised, but with no connection between them. There were no words here. Plenty of letters of the Cyrillic alphabet, and grouped together as though they should be words, but were not.

She shook her head. "I cannot read this."

"You do not read Ancient Greek then?"

"I read _that _perfectly; this is not it. I do not know what this is."

"Russian?"

She shrugged. "I would not have said so—I know only what it is not, Master Wayne, not what it could be."

He gave a small motion of disappointment. "No matter."

There was a pause between them, then Diana asked, "So your agents…they will find my sister? Are you certain?"

Here he hesitated. "I do not wish to lie to you, Miss Prince-"

"And you should not try. Had Donna actually given me a falsehood then none of us would be in our current entanglement. As it was, all she did was to conceal the truth."

He nodded. "Then I shall not lie—if it were your sister alone they were searching for, then yes. They would find her before she came to any mischief. However, she is not alone. She is with Dick."

Diana nodded pensively. "I remember you saying you had trained him 'too' well. Presumably you meant this—as a spy?"

Bruce replied, "Yes, unfortunately. Dick discovered a long time ago the truth of what I do, and in order to protect him, I trained him, gave him the skills he might one day need."

Diana felt a thrill of cold fear. "So Donna…?"

"I cannot guarantee she will be safe. I can only swear to you that Dick will do everything in his power to keep her that way."

Diana took a deep breath and fought for calm. Suddenly scandal and disgrace sounded utterly laughable. Actual physical danger was inconceivable, surely. But looking at Bruce now, at this man who dealt in secrets and who lived a lie, she knew that he told the truth. Donna was in danger. She wondered if Dick had told her that, when he had asked her to share his life.

_Knowing Donna, she would only have found it all the more romantic for that_, Diana thought.

But this was not romantic, and it was not a story, fairytale or any kind of fable. This held the very real possibility of harming her sister's health, if not removing her life altogether. Revenge for her father was now only a secondary concern.

"In that case, Mr Wayne," she said slowly, "I can think of only one appropriate course of action."

"Which is?"

"For me to join this secret service of yours. Because then, if my family is ever placed in danger, if they are ever threatened, I can protect them. I have obviously failed hereto forth. So let me join, and ensure I do not fail again."

He looked at her frankly. "You do not have the necessary skills."

"I can learn them," she replied, prepared for some resistance. "I can already ride, I can handle a rapier and I speak several languages, all fluently. The only thing I am unable to do is shoot."

He barked out a short laugh. "There is slightly more to it than that, Miss Prince."

"_So teach me_."

He sat back in his seat, his physical attitude very relaxed yet his gaze anything but. Diana felt his mind scanning her all over, _in _her, looking through her. She held herself very still, knowing without any doubt that he would find what he sought. Her mother had once told her she had a core of steel, and for the first time since Pappa's death, she felt it in her again now. She fully embraced it. It gave her strength, resolve, purpose. When his eyes swept over her body—with perfect objectivity—she did not blush, did not look away. And when he looked back into her eyes, she knew she had won. Finally he leaned forward again.

"I cannot allow you-"

"But-"

"I cannot allow you _now_," he said, "because there are certain things you must understand that, presently, I do not think you grasp."

"Such as?"

"In order to give you these skills you need, your training would be intensive, and it would be extensive. You will in essence need to come and live here, at Wayne Manor. Society will assume you are my mistress. It will damage your prospects permanently, perhaps destroy them."

Diana allowed herself a bitter smile as she prepared her answer. "Mr Wayne, I am almost twenty five years old; I have two younger sisters, one of whom is currently the scandal of London; we none of us have any money whatsoever; and my father is an infamous traitor to the Crown. I doubt my prospects could sink much lower. Do you?"

He remained stoic. "Nevertheless, I need you to go back to Mr and Mrs Kent and think about it, truly think about every possible thing that might be required of you, and I do mean _every last thing_. Come back this time tomorrow afternoon, with your decision."

* * *

**A/N: Review please!**


	11. Departure

**I've published the book! _Arthur's Witch: The Priestess_ is now available on Kindle and Smashwords, and you can download the sample for free, so it's gotta be worth a look! The blurb is below.**

_**Morgan le Fay is a woman shrouded in infamy. The original wicked witch, she is responsible for bringing the golden age of Arthur to a catastrophic end. Though evil guile, ruthless ambition and petty jealousy, she stood against the light of Britain's first Christian King, her own brother. She watched an entire kingdom burn. A subhuman monster who consorted with demons and became the Devil's mistress. **_

_**Or a woman shrouded in mystery. The original fairy godmother, she is responsible for creating the golden age of Arthur from the ground to the ramparts of Camelot. Though passion, purity of spirit and selflessness, she stood against the religious perversion which invaded her homeland and corrupted her King, her own brother. She protected an entire kingdom as a mother would a child. A High Priestess whose name and legend have been besmirched and besmeared by lesser men.**_

_**Her own story. Now told.**_

* * *

**A/N: Enjoy the chapter :)  
**

**Chapter Eleven - Departure**

That evening, over dinner, Diana explained everything to a flabbergasted Clark and Lois. It had quickly become clear that Clark shared all aspects of his occupation with his wife, since neither of them uttered a sound of surprise when Diana revealed Bruce's 'secret service'. Neither of them attempted to talk her out of it, which only slightly surprised her. Lois knew better than to try once Diana determined on something, and Clark would hardly state it was unsafe if he himself was involved.

It had occurred to Diana that her sex, which in most other circumstances might be considered a drawback, could actually be an advantage. Women were weak, women were hysterical and emotional, women did not have the strong mind and stomach needed for this kind of work. So why would anyone suspect a woman? Why would a woman be involved in the hard-edged, masculine world of espionage? Her foes would be more likely to underestimate her, and from now onwards, Diana decided, she would make certain they did. She would become—in small groups—quiet, withdrawn, unintelligent, dull and quite spiritless. In large groups—vapid, shrill, cold and contemptuous of others. Until she no longer needed to be, and could just be Diana.

Like Bruce, Lois and Clark wanted to be assured that she had considered every angle before she committed herself to this, and it was making Diana slightly impatient.

Lois picked up on that, too. "We've only your best interests at heart, Diana."

"I know, and I apologise. It's just… I feel I may do something, actually be of use for the first time since my father died. And I want to rush for the opportunity with very little thought given to hesitation."

"I've never known you to be impatient," Clark said mildly.

His wife snorted. "Then you have not known Diana long enough, my dear."

Diana smiled ruefully. "It is but too true, I am afraid. But am I to be censured for it in this case, Lois? It may not directly aid my sisters, but to be sure, it is worth more than anything else I hitherto accomplished."

"True enough. Very well—this is your course; what needs to be done now?"

"I have only one more question, Mr Kent: is he an honourable man? I am not being deceived, or taken in in any way? Is he a _true _gentleman?"

"Yes," Clark said, without hesitation. "He is an absolute gentleman. And I know he holds his honour as the guiding principle of his life."

Diana nodded, satisfied. "Good. Then I will give my answer to Mr Wayne, and presumably then can begin. I've little idea of what I am to learn first, or even in general. What does a spy require in order to be a spy?" she asked, with a little laugh. "Excepting discretion and intelligence, naturally."

Clark shrugged. "For my work, that _is _all that's needed. But it could be you will need a different set of skills. How is it you intend to defend your family?"

"In any way I must—either with clever tricks or my bare hands."

* * *

The carriage came at four to take Diana to Wayne Manor, where Bruce awaited her answer. As before, Alfred let her in and took her into the study. Tea was already waiting, Bruce standing to welcome her. They exchanged the customary greetings and then Diana settled herself into a chair.

"My decision has not changed, Mr Wayne. Nor has my resolve abandoned me."

He nodded. "Very well." He poured out, and handed her a cup and saucer. "In that case, there are preparations to be made. Your belongings for one, and you must choose what furnishings you might want in your apartments. No expense must be spared."

She raised an eyebrow. "Mr Wayne, I agreed to people assuming I was your mistress; I do not wish you to treat me as such."

"I do not propose to treat you as my mistress, Miss Prince, and perhaps I worded my earlier warning poorly. If society _assumes _you to be my mistress, it must be seen to be that way. The illusion will protect both of us, but it needs to be perfect. Rumours will spread of the fine furnishings, the expensive clothes—and they will spread among our enemies, as well as our allies."

Diana sighed. "And this is absolutely necessary?"

"Yes. Otherwise it will—or may—appear suspicious to anyone paying very close attention. Our mutual connection in Hector will ensure that."

"Then it must be done. And in order to do it-"

He stood with a smile and offered his arm. "Miss Prince, may I show you to your rooms?"

Even Diana had to smile at that, and she took his arm. He led her through the huge house, up another flight of stairs. His own rooms, he explained, were at the far end of the house, far from hers, which she appreciated.

"I will need you to choose several feminine items I can place in my own chambers, though there is no great hurry for them."

"Why?" Diana asked curiously.

"It may sometimes—allow me to correct myself. It _will _sometimes be necessary to hold a ball, or at least an evening assembly or dinners now and then. It is unlikely anyone would dare risk discovery by sneaking around the manor, but-"

"-but if someone does go snooping, the illusion needs to be intact throughout the house."

"Precisely. Here are your apartments."

There were as many rooms in her apartments as there were in the whole of Dashwood Cottage, and Diana had no idea how she would begin to fill them. They were all large, with tall window, a highly polished floor and utterly bare of everything else. There were no curtains, no wallpaper, no tables, chairs or items of furniture at all.

"This will take some work, I know," Bruce said. "Take Mrs Kent with you when you go shopping; charge everything to me. Spare no expense."

"To what extent does that hold?"

He smirked slightly. "Spare _no_ expense, Miss Prince."

He moved to the bedroom, which alongside the bathroom was the only chamber which had anything in it—in this case a bed."

"Do the proportions meet with your approval?" Bruce asked.

"I am a little overwhelmed. This is more than I have ever given any thought to, and to be told _I _must furnish them…"

"Would you rather I choose?"

"Are you confident in what kind of things would meet with the expectations of your mistress?"

He shrugged. "I would imagine so. The furnishings at least."

"Then I will choose the clothes. I suppose they will need to be as far from my own taste as possible."

"If your taste does not run to the ostentatious, then yes."

Diana sighed. "Rest assured, Mr Wayne, it does not."

"I am glad to hear it."

They came away from the rooms which were to be hers in relative silence; Bruce did not ask her if she approved, and Diana did not talk about the things she was dreading doing—too busy thinking about it. Most women would enjoy being told they could expect everything of the finest, but for Diana it felt like another burden. To prevent herself being melancholy, she asked about the training she was to receive.

"What will you teach me first, Mr Wayne?"

"I need to assess your existing skills before I know what you need to learn."

"I've told you what I can do."

"There amy be discrepancies in your technique."

"Oh might there be?" Diana asked archly.

"Yes. One cannot view oneself through an objective lens."

"I don't suffer from either boastfulness or false modesty, Mr Wayne."

"Modesty is not always false."

"That can be true, I suppose. When would you like to start?"

"This afternoon. Alfred has prepared supper under my presumption you will be staying until then; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"I thought we would try riding first. There are suitable clothes laid out for you."

Once Diana was changed (into an outfit almost identical to the one Mrs Queen had lent her—but precisely her size), Bruce took her out to the stables, across a cobbled courtyard. There were five or six stalls with the top halves of the doors open, and horses were peering out. They were all extremely handsome beasts, Diana thought, admiringly. She felt a sharp pang for her own horse, taken from her like everything else had been.

A loud and piercing whinny broke through her brooding, and Diana gasped as she saw the animal that had made the noise. She would recognise that grey coat and those intelligent, fine-lashed brown eyes anywhere.

"Perseus!"

The lower half of the stall door quivered as Perseus kicked at it, impatient to get to his mistress. Diana fairly ran across the cobbles to him. Her horse received her with as much joy as she did him, nuzzling into her hands and neck.

After she had spent a moment or two in exultation, she turned to look in wonder at Bruce. "How?"

He approached slowly. "I pulled a few strings," he said, the Americanism rolling easily from his tongue. "Figured it was probably better that he come somewhere he would be cared for, rather than pressed into service for the military."

Diana swallowed. "I was imagining even worse fates for him, Mr Wayne. Such as ending up on the slab of a _boucherie._"

"Then I am glad to have alleviated that fear, at least."

"Thank you. Once again I am hopelessly in your debt," Diana said lowly, her voice earnest and emotional.

He pressed her hand briefly. "Think nothing of it, Miss Prince, please. Now, I believe you mentioned being a competent rider? You would certainly need to be more than competent to master him properly. Perseus, was it?"

"Yes. Donna's was Andromeda, and Papa spoke of buying Cassandra a horse before-"

When she cut off, Mr Wayne filled the gap in the conversation easily. "Quite the Greek connection. Because of your mother?"

"Yes. She was Greek herself, and we both—Donna and I—grew up on tales of heroes and gods, monsters and great adventures… The Iliad and the Odyssey were my bedtime stories when I was a girl."

"Excellent food for the mind, I would have thought."

Diana nodded. "And Mother was the most wonderful story-teller. She would speak of these places, these battles, as though she had been there herself. At least, that is how a fond memory has embellished a child's imagination."

Bruce smiled warmly, and though it indeed warmed her, Diana felt the impropriety of such an extended look between them. She cleared her throat. "So, where do you keep your tack?"

It was time for her first real test; Bruce had seen her ride before, but the placid mare the Queens had loaned her was nothing compared to her own stallion. She found Perseus fierier than usual, more inclined to take it into his head to gallop all over the place, jump over everything in his path and rear when he wasn't doing that. But Diana was equal to him, and quickly reestablished her command over him.

Bruce himself had a purely black gelding, not as powerful as Perseus, but not as tempestuous either. He shouted commands to her, often changing his mind in the blink of an eye and making it difficult to keep up. She managed it though, and three hours later, when her legs and backside were sore, and she was sweating, colour high in her cheeks, she felt she had acquitted herself.

"Satisfied?" she asked.

Bruce nodded, also out of breath. "For now."

* * *

The day afterwards, Diana's clothes arrived from Gloucestershire, along with Etta. Feeling that she could not dismiss the family servant who had known her since she was a little girl, Diana spoke to Lois about her.

"I know I've no right to ask anything more of you, my dear friend, but I must beg one more indulgence of you," she said over tea.

"Name it."

"Will you employ Etta here? I cannot take her with me to Wayne Manor; aside from the fact she knows me too well to be deceived by the character I must play, I doubt she would consent to my destruction of my family's honour. She would see it as me betraying my parents' memories. Cassandra will probably see it in the same light."

Lois nodded. "Of course I will. Shall you put it to her now?"

Diana went down to the kitchen, where Etta was found speaking to the Kent's butler quietly, both of them with their heads quite close together, a rare smile on Etta's face. "Etta? May I speak to you for a moment, in the parlour?"

Her maidservant blushed, but nodded and stepped away from the butler. "Of course, miss."

When they were seated together in the servants' sitting room, Diana began. "Etta, in a week or so, I am leaving this house, but I am not returning to Gloucestershire. And where I am going, I cannot take you with me."

Etta's lip trembled. "I'm- I'm to be dismissed, Miss Prince?"

"From _my _service only—if you are willing, Mrs Kent is more than happy to take you on as a lady's maid. Are you willing?"

Etta looked very confused. "Well, I… I know she is a very kind mistress to the staff here, miss, but I don't understand. Have I displeased in some way?"

"Not at all. It is simply that I do not have a choice. If I did, I would keep you with me always. I cannot, so I am trying to make the best provision I can for you."

"And I am grateful for that, Miss Prince. If I must leave you, then I would happily serve Mrs Kent here. If you are _certain_ you will not need me wherever it is you must go."

"It is impossible," Diana said firmly.

"Then very well, miss. I will be sorry to be parted from all you girls. And I wish you very long health and happiness."

_The chance would be a fine thing_, Diana thought.

When she rejoined Lois, they were mutually satisfied with Etta's answer, and Lois summoned the Kent's butler, Mr Trevor, to inform him there would be an addition to his staff. He was curious, of course, and knew that Etta had formally been Diana's servant, but he made no comment other than a bow and a, "Yes, madam, very good. Will there be anything else?"

"Thank you, Trevor, no."

He bowed to them both and left the room. Diana sighed deeply. "Well, that is another piece of my life done away with. What should I shuck next?"

"You've yet to write to Cassandra."

"Ah, of course. The respect and admiration my youngest sister has for me must also be shed."

"Will you take my council?"

"Of course."

"Say nothing to Cassandra—yet. Tell her of Donna's elopement, by all means, but simply tell her to direct all letters to yourself here, and we will pass them onto you. When school ends for the summer, tell all then. But you need not cause both you and her grief by pouring out everything now."

"I cannot lie to my sister, Lois. It is bad enough lying to the rest of the world."

"Then do not lie. Tell her that there is more, but that the time is not yet right. Tell her she will hear rumours—for she will—but that you will explain it to her when you see her. Tell her that she must trust you as she always has."

* * *

By the end of that week, Diana had dispatched all the relevant messages, ordered only the bare essentials be brought down from Gloucestershire, and was ready to leave the Kents. She and Bruce Wayne had been exchanging regular correspondence, and he was expecting her later today. Waiting for her at Wayne Manor would be a new life. A new identity. She had been crafting carefuly, and was now sure who this new Diana Prince would be—tedious, silly, dull, insipid. The only thing that would be irremovable would be her beauty, and that was what she would use as a shield. She would match it to fine fabrics, elegant, artful manners, conceit and disdain for those around her. She would treat strangers with the barest civility and endear herself only to equally (though truly) cold, elegant people.

There would be a few exceptions to the rule, she hoped. Enough to keep her from losing her sanity altogether. Bruce would be one, of course, along with Lois and Clark, Mr and Mrs Queen. Cassie, when it could all be explained to her. Diana had no doubt that she was capable for understanding—only of her willingness to do so.

The last of her trunks were being loaded into the wagon now, to complete the short journey to Wayne Manor. All that would be left then would be for Diana herself. Her new clothes had been taken directly there already—Lois had taken her shopping over the past few days, to all the most fashionable and sophisticated shops, in which Diana had perused over silks, golden thread, perfumes, jewels and beads, so much fabricated beauty it had made her head spin. At one point, in McCabe fashions, she had found herself standing before a looking glass, staring out on an utter stranger. The woman stood arrogantly straight, her hair elaborately curled and held up with a colourful headdress. Her chin and nose were firmly in the air, her blue eyes half-lidded, indolent. Her mouth was set in a sneer of civility. Her dress was heavy, low-cut in the neckline, over-trimmed with lace on the hem, gold peeking out at every opportunity. Exactly the sort of woman, Diana thought, who could be a rich man's mistress.

There was a knock on the door of her bedroom, and Lois pushed open the door. "The carriage is here, Diana."

Diana picked up her bonnet and coat, slipping both on. When she went down to the front door, she was determined not to blush when she saw the large silver 'W' on the side of the barouche that awaited her. She knew that the pretense started now. She would not look around to see the glances of passers-by. She was grateful, though, when Clark handed her in to the carriage, and even more grateful for the easy smile and assurance that they would see her again soon. She thanked him, and then the door was shut, and Diana was driven into a new life.

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**A/N: Review please!**


	12. Fencing

**I've published the book! _Arthur's Witch: The Priestess_ is now available on Kindle and Smashwords, and you can download the sample for free, so it's gotta be worth a look! The blurb is below.**

_**Morgan le Fay is a woman shrouded in infamy. The original wicked witch, she is responsible for bringing the golden age of Arthur to a catastrophic end. Though evil guile, ruthless ambition and petty jealousy, she stood against the light of Britain's first Christian King, her own brother. She watched an entire kingdom burn. A subhuman monster who consorted with demons and became the Devil's mistress. **_

_**Or a woman shrouded in mystery. The original fairy godmother, she is responsible for creating the golden age of Arthur from the ground to the ramparts of Camelot. Though passion, purity of spirit and selflessness, she stood against the religious perversion which invaded her homeland and corrupted her King, her own brother. She protected an entire kingdom as a mother would a child. A High Priestess whose name and legend have been besmirched and besmeared by lesser men.**_

_**Her own story. Now told.**_

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**A/N: ****This chapter is dedicated to Serena Kenobi, with my congratulations. She knows why ;) And also thank you to theamerican91, for giving me a kick to get this chapter out.  
**

**Chapter Twelve—Fencing**

Diana was welcomed by Alfred in a manner which convinced her that the elderly butler was not like other domestic servants. He made it clear that she was welcome, but was grace and solemn—he understood she was making a sacrifice to be here. She appreciated his appropriate response to the situation, though she still could not place him. if he was _not_ an ordinary domestic, then what exactly _was_ he? Her own sense of propriety stopped her from asking outright, so Diana merely resolved to be more observant, and see what she might pick up.

Bruce, she was told, awaited her in the drawing room, after she had freshened up and inspected the layout of her apartment. She went upstairs with a little trepidation, unsure of what she would find. To her strange satisfaction, everything was as ostentatious and gaudy as she expected it to be. Ebony and mahogany furniture, richly upholstered; ivory and silver trinkets pointlessly scattered across every surface; hand-painted Chinese silk wallpaper and heavy damask drapes at the windows. Singularly, Diana would have examined each object with indifference and contempt—altogether, the effect was quite eye-watering.

"Does it meet your approbation, Miss Prince?" Alfred asked, his eyes positively twinkling.

Diana's mouth quirked into a smile before she could stop it. "It's … everything I imagined."

"The master will be pleased." He pointed to a bell pull by the door. "Should you need anything, please just ring for me."

"Thank you, Mr Pennyworth."

He bowed and left her to wander through the other rooms with just as much wonder and amazement, before removing her coat and bonnet and heading downstairs. She entered the drawing room and found Bruce Wayne standing by the window. She entered silently, and did not make a noise, but even so he knew she was there. Or at least, his back did.

"How do you like your rooms, Miss Prince?"

She nodded. "As hideous as expected."

He turned with a smile. "I'm so glad to hear it. Would you care for some wine?"

"Thank you, yes."

He poured out two glasses of crimson liquid and handed on to her. If there was to be an awkward, quiet moment, Diana thought, it would be now. It was not only her who had changed her life for this. There probably had not been a woman living in this house since Bruce's mother, all those years ago. She briefly wondered if she would ever be in a position to ask. No, she realised, looking at him now. There would never be a time for such enquiries. Such information, such personal detail, could only ever be volunteered.

The moment, however, was eclipsed by Bruce handing her a flat piece of paper. When she looked at it, it appeared to be some kind of timetable. "What's this?" she asked.

"Your schedule for the weeks ahead," he replied, pronouncing the 'sch' in a way strange to Diana's eyes. America pronunciation, she assumed. "I thought we could go over it for any problems."

"It seems to be a little like going back to school."

"In a way, it will be. There is certainly a lot to learn."

There was indeed; shooting, languages, archery, unarmed combat and more riding. The riding was less frequent than other activities, presumably because she had already proven her proficiency in that.

"I'm to learn Russian?" she asked.

"Yes. There may be occasion to travel there, and at least one of us will need to speak Russian."

"You do not speak that either?"

"No. But as you are already familiar with the Cyrillic alphabet, it would be easier for you to learn than I."

"Who will be my tutor, if you do not speak it?"

There was the soft clearing of a throat from the doorway. "That will be me, Miss Prince."

Diana stared between butler and master for a moment, before realising she was being impolite and closing her mouth. "Indeed? Very well, Mr Pennyworth. I look forward to your instruction."

"He's a hard task master, I warn you" Bruce commented with a small smile. "But something tells me you did not expect this to be easy."

"Anything but, I assure you."

"Then I look forward to working with you, Miss Prince. I believe our first lesson is scheduled for tomorrow at nine in the morning. Please endeavor not to be late." He bowed and shut the door behind himself before Diana could further conceal her surprise.

"He is not like any other servant I have ever met, Mr Wayne."

"I confess it has been a very long time since I thought of Alfred as any kind of servant. After my parents were killed he became my legal guardian. Since I was eight, he has raised me."

"How very extraordinary."

"Not really. At least, I doubt you will think so once you get to know him."

Diana caught the faint note of warning in his voice, and listened to it. This household was going to take some time to get used to, clearly. Diana hoped she had never treated any of her servants unkindly, but she had always followed propriety. Etta had been the only one she treated with open affection, and even that, to a certain extent, had ceased once Dina had become mistress of the house.

"So, what is the rest of my schedule like?" she asked.

"Equally busy."

"What is 'unarmed combat'?" she asked. "How can anyone fight without weapons?"

"Very easily," Bruce answered, "with the right technique, master and enough patience. I am the most skilled man in the kingdom in this form of combat. In China it is very widely practiced."

"Have you been there? To China, I mean."

"I lived them for some years, in the Himalayan Mountains. Then I went to India, Arabia …"

"Have you ever travelled back?'

His eyes darkened. "Once."

To fill the awkward pause that created, Diana asked something that had been playing on her mind. "Mr Wayne, tell me—in this role, this spying, will I need to kill? To assassinate?"

It did not work to relieve any of the tension; the moment the word 'kill' left her lips, Bruce's expression grew even more grave. "Miss Prince, I must make one thing very clear to you: I never kill. Even if I know my intelligence may lead to to wars and such, no one under my command ever takes life."

"Then I am relieved."

"Good."

"But has there never been a time when you have felt the temptation?" she asked. "I know _I _have wished for revenge, and I have only half your motivation."

He leaned back a little in his seat. "You are bold, Miss Prince."

She remained silent, unsure why she had been so. She did not know him anywhere hear well enough to ask such a personal question. But something about the idea of him treating her as anything less than an equal rankled with Diana. He had not been so discourteous yet, but she wanted to nip every possible bloom of condescension in the bud.

Finally, Bruce nodded. "I have wished for revenge, true enough. As a child, and a young man, I wished for very little else. But I realised that simple revenge would be … not enough. It would avenge my parents' lives, but it would do nothing to stop what happened to me being repeated, time and time again. Only by doing this, only by preventing such murders and unhappiness could that happen. So I have dedicated my life to it."

"All very understandable," Diana acknowledged, "but it does not explain why you do not kill those you fight against. It would be the most effective way of stopping them."

"For the simple reason that doing so would make me no better than them. And," he added with a confident smirk, "there are far more efficient tools than death at my disposal—and these, you will learn."

"I look forward to it."

"But first—a tour of the house."

She raised an eyebrow. "May I not explore on my own?"

"Of course, but there are certain areas that you will never find on your own. Particularly the cave."

Diana stopped. "The _cave_?"

"Yes. Well, more of a cavern really. The entrance is through the study."

She followed him up to the study on the first floor, full of curiosity. When they got to the study, it was not diminished—the room had only one door, and nowhere could Diana see the entrance to another chamber. When she pointed out as much to Bruce, he only shook his head and moved to the tall grandfather clock that stood against the wall. Opening the glass face, he moved the hands so that they read ten minutes to eleven. With a small clicking noise, there appeared a gap of about half an inch on the left-hand side, enough for one's fingers to gain purchase. This Bruce did, pulling the clock outward on smooth, previously unseen hinges. Behind the clock was a tunnel, descending into stairs that wound down.

Diana looked at Bruce, her jaw slack. "My goodness. You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"I do try to be," he answers, moving over to light a candle with a taper from the fire. "If you do not mind, I will go first. There are certain booby-traps."

"Booby-traps? Great Hera."

"That's an odd turn of phrase," he remarked.

"Another legacy from my childhood."

"I take it, then, you will not wish to attend church everySunday?"

"No. The Christian faith has never brought me much succor or comfort, Mr Wayne. I could easily never go back to it."

He nodded, but said nothing before leading them down the staircase. It spiralled underground; Diana had not thought that the walls of the manor were so thick as to conceal an entire staircase, but down they went. Their progress was necessarily slow, as Bruce kept stopping to light candelabras on the way down, illuminating their path. Finally they reached the bottom of the steps, and were faced with a door that looked positively medieval in nature; dark oak and studded with iron.

"How long has this been here?" Diana asked.

"It's relatively recent. The cave, of course, in natural and has existed for thousands of years, but I installed the entrance to it some years ago, when all this started."

Diana made a small note of that. Judging by what she had already seen, Bruce certainly had a flair for the dramatic. The door required no key—though it did require being kicked—to open, and the groan it made as it swung outward echoed, revealing that a vast space lay beyond. Bruce passed the candle to her and went inside.

"This is impossible to light with nothing but candles," Bruce explained, "so I've had to come up with a better alternative."

"Which is?" Diana asked, moving over to him.

He was fiddling with a complicated copper apparatus, twirling wheels around and pulling levers. "Pressure's alright …"

Finally he took hold of one small wheel and turned it clockwise. Diana had lost all interest a while ago, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she made out a little more detail. Stalagmites and tites loomed from the dark, or thrust upwards, made smooth by centuries of dripping water. There were the jagged edges of vast pits and crevices not too far from where she stood. In fact, chillingly close, she thought, deciding not to move from where she stood until she could _see _where she was moving. What was most curious though, were the tiny, pale blue lights that Diana could see dotted around the walls, grouped together and glowing faintly in the darkness. As Bruce finished whatever she was doing, the blue became orange, and then yellow, increasing in volume and brightness until most of the cave was illuminated brightly.

Diana spent a moment looking over it. "Gas."

"Very good."

"Is there a natural source underneath the manor?"

"Yes, a pocket almost a mile down, in fact. I use that to light the house, and I intend to work on a heating system when I have time. Possibly in my retirement," he added, with a little bark of retirement.

"Is it not dangerous?" she asked. "Surely there must be a risk of explosion."

"A slight one, but I've just set up several fail-safes and other precautions. That's why the damned things take so long to turn on."

"Ah. I did think you were rather making a mountain from a molehill," she teased.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Am I going to have trouble with you, Miss Prince?"

"Oh, very great I should think."

He smiled. "I thought as much. What do you think?"

She looked around the newly-illuminated cave. It was, as she'd suspected, vast. There seemed to be several clearly divided sections to it. On their left, an area about twenty five feet across, with some kind of bamboo matting on the floor and a weapons rack on one side. Though, aside from a few words, Diana recognised none of the weapons.

"Souvenirs from your travels?" she asked.

He nodded, moving over to them. From the weapon rack, he picked up what looked like a pair of small metal stars. Diana came over to examine them, finding that they had extremely sharp edges. "They're called shuriken," Bruce said. With a flick of his wrist, he sent them flying across the room to land, quivering, in the bamboo wall of the practice area. The suddenness of the movement caught Diana by surprise, and she started a little. Bruce smirked. "Very useful for incapacitating enemies at a distance of about fifteen feet."

"Impressive."

"We'll get to them."

He motioned for her to follow him to another part of the cave, where there were yet more technological marvels to look at. In one corner, Diana's attention was caught by a tarpaulin-covered object, and she moved over to it.

"What's under here?"

"A … hobby. I'm working on an internal combustion engine."

"Combustion? You mean an engine powered by an explosion?"

"Well, a very small, very contained one. But if it works, then it could have a vast number of applications. Transportation for one thing—if fitted to vehicles it could almost eliminate pollution in towns and cities."

"You imagine horseless carriages?"

"Eventually, one day. When I can get it right. At the moment it is nowhere near ready. The explosion is … somewhat less than contained."

Diana smiled at that, then let the covering fall back into place. "Then I shall leave it alone for now."

"This is where most of your combat training will take place," Bruce explained. "I assume you know little about armed or unarmed fighting, but please correct me if I am wrong."

"You are wrong indeed," Diana said warmly. "I cannot use a pistol, true enough, but I how how to hit a man and I know the rudiments of fencing."

"When you say you know how to hit a man …"

Diana's gaze darkened dangerously, though there was more than a small twinkle in there too. "Would you like a demonstration, Mr Wayne?"

All her life, that tone and look had been enough to ward off the attentions of more timid men, no matter how amorous. Not so this man, apparently. Diana could not remember the last time she had had her bluff called, but now it was being.

"I would be delighted, Miss Prince."

They moved to the training area, Bruce essentially standing there doing nothing, waiting for Diana to strike him. She frowned, dropping her hands. "Mr Wayne, I hardly think this is an effective demonstration of what I can do."

"Actually, it is. I will stop you before you make contact with my body, and this will give me chance to observe your form. Now, please, hit me."

Diana raised an eyebrow, but did adopt the right stance, shifting her weight onto her back back and lowering her centre of gravity slightly. She raised her hand, balled it into a fist, and then stopped. "Just … hit you?"

"Just hit me."

"Very well."

She aimed for his shoulder, and right until the last moment, Bruce stood very still, relaxed, completely unconcerned. Right before her fist made contact, his hand managed to come up in the blink of an eye and deflect her blow. Surprised, Diana tried again, with the same result.

"Put more strength into it."

She doubted that would make much difference, but did as he instructed, and struck again, only to have Bruce block her again. And again, and again. Diana did not, as her perhaps expected, become frustrated and attempt wild blows; it would avail her absolutely nothing and exhaust her besides, so she decided a feint was in order. She aimed for his shoulder again and then, once he tried to block, changed her route and hit him squarely in the nose. The blow was a shock for both of them, but only one of them ended up on his backside.

Diana had to laugh at the utterly stupefied expression on Bruce's face. "Something tells me that is not a common occurrence, Mr Wayne?"

He accepted her offer of a hand up. "Indeed not."

"So, how was my form?"

"Not bad. The next time, we will try in a sparring situation, and see how you fare in actual combat."

"Very well."

"Can you handle a rapier?"

"Yes. But I think for your safety it might be better if we use foils."

"I thought you said you only knew the rudiments."

She shrugged and flourished the foil a little as he handed it to her. "It was one of my father's favourite pastimes, and my mother encouraged it." She adopted the appropriate pose. "En-garde."

Diana had not lied—Hector never had taught her much more than the rudiments, but she had a natural talent for it, and easy grace with a sword in her hand. Now facing Bruce, she felt at ease for the first time since entering this strange, labyrinthine house.

They fell into the rhythm of any fencing match—thrust, parry, block, feint, both of them content to test the limits of the other one before doing anything in earnest. Bruce was very quick in doing this; after barely ten seconds of combat, he had already assessed much of her capability, Diana knew. She had, naturally, done the same to him. He was broad, powerful, which ordinarily would have meant her slighter build would give her the speed advantage. Not that she was considered slight by the standards most women were judged by. She was however, stronger than most women. Once they had been made properly aware of one another, Diana attacked truly. There was no warming up slowly into the match—they moved at equal speed and strength, blades flashing silver in the soft gas light. It was very easy to enjoy it; it had been a long time since she had fenced, even longer since she had enjoyed an equal opponent. They were very evenly matched, at least for the first several minutes of the fight. Until Diana started pulling her own moves out of her arsenal. They were probably illegal moves, but the rules of pure fencing had been forgotten a while ago in the enjoyment of it, for both of them. If there were points being scored, they were no longer fencing ones. Time passed quickly, with both of them steadily exhausting themselves. By the time Bruce raised his foil, and his free hand, Diana was drenched in very unladylike perspiration, and very much in need of a bath.

Realising this, she felt embarrassed. That had not been overly dignified.

"Well, in traditional fencing you may indeed only only know the rudiments, Miss Prince. But I would hardly call you a novice."

"Thank you. I am sure there is room for improvement though."

"In me, definitely. I would say you will be teaching me as well as I you."

"Again, I thank you."

"Come. I am sure after that we could both use some refreshment."

Diana heartily agreed—noting with some pleasure that Bruce took longer than her to regain his breath.

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**A/N: Review please!**


	13. Progress

**A/N: Now, pay attention class! You at the back there, are you listening? Good. This chapter contains the loading and firing of flintlock pistols, which contain some components named 'cock' and 'ball'. I trust we're all mature enough to recognise that the early 19th century is not the 21st, and that words have different meanings? I assume we can all be mature about this? Jenkins? JENKINS ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?! **

**(I apologise if you actually are called Jenkins)  
**

**Chapter Thirteen—Progress**

Diana was less than pleased when Bruce presented her with a pistol. Not because it seemed, at first glance, like hypocrisy—a good shot _could _wound without killing, after all—but because it was _tiny_. Tiny, and pearl-handled, and in every way dainty and delicate. The bullets that would go into said pistol were also absurdly small. Diana doubted they would even compare to bee stings.

"You expect me to do any kind of damage with this?" she asked. "Surely such a weapon as this is designed to be decorative more than destructive."

"Appearances can be deceptive. Believe me, Miss Prince, you put one of these," he held up one of the tiny silver balls, "into a man's knee, and he will know about it."

"I imagine he would know about _that_ slightly faster," Diana countered, picking up the other pistol which lay on the table.

This one was larger, heavier, and felt more reassuring in her hand. It was also a man's pistol, but it was a handsome thing: walnut, polished handle, gold filigree on the barrel, formed into little bats, if she was not mistaken. In comparison to this, her weapon looked like a _toy_.

Her expression must have said as much, because Bruce explained further. "You will be practicing with flintlocks of all sizes, including rifles, but at pistol like this is the only one that will fit in anything you may be carrying."

She had to acknowledge the logic in that, though she could not see how Bruce had room in his clothing for the bigger pistol. Women often carried little bags with them, containing a few essentials. In the day these were mostly plain cotton, and finely beaded bags were taken into evening assemblies. The pearl-handled one would easily fit into either.

"How do you wear yours?" she asked. "I suppose not in your belt…"

"Indeed not. I've designed an apparatus for concealing it, albeit an imperfect one."

He began unbuttoning his jacket, then took it off altogether. Diana was a little startled—there was suddenly one less layer between them than there should have been. It was a social barrier removed. Diana mentally shook her head. Did she really believe such social barriers existed for her now? They could both be naked and it could hardly make any discernible difference. At _that_ thought, however, her scruples reasserted themselves, and her cheeks were suddenly stained a brilliant vermillion. Suddenly requiring more distance between them, she strode over to the window.

"Miss Prince? Are you well?"

She cleared her throat. "Quite well, I thank you."

She waited one more moment before she turned around again and looked properly at whatever it was he wanted to show her. It looked like some sort of harness, worn over the shoulders and made of dark leather. Attached to it were two pouches, one on either side, obviously designed for pistols. He slid his flintlock into one of them, then replaced his jacket. Once it was done up, Diana had to admit that it was a good method of concealment for a weapon. She could detect the faint outline of the pistol, it was only faint. In a situation such as a crowded ballroom, she imagined it would be impossible to do so.

Less reluctantly now, Diana picked up her little weapon. Her method of concealment would be the air of fashion she would carry everywhere with her. "Very well," she said. "In that case, I imagine I will need to practice."

"You will. We'll start with rifles; they have a longer range and are better for a novice. I've instructed Alfred to set up some targets in the grounds."

"Away from the horses, I hope," Diana commented. "Unless you wish Perseus to kick his stall door down."

"Well away, do not fear. We will be taking two of my own mounts," he said, "but they have been conditioned not to react to the noise."

"Conditioned? How?"

"I have several cannon. Each time I acquire a new horse I fire the guns six times a day, every day, until that horse is no longer spooked by the sound."

"Is that not distressing for the animal?"

"Not overly so. And it is effective, and prevents them from panicking when they come across real battle."

"And is that likely?" she asked.

"Anything is likely in this occupation. The sooner you learn that the easier time you will have of it, Miss Prince."

Diana changed for riding—wondering if she might make something like this her normal attire, as it was so comfortable—and the two of them left the manor to go to the stables. Something that Diana had failed to fully realise before today was the lack of servants. There appeared to be only Alfred—no footmen, no grooms, and there had been no talk of a lady's maid for Diana, either. She had no objection on that score, as she was very capable of dressing, washing, generally coiffing herself, but she would need to speak to Bruce about having a maid on hand for special occasions. Those parties he had intimated would be held at some point would certainly require a full household. Or perhaps that would be her job? She glanced at Bruce, who walked to her left. Did he anticipate that she would be mistress of the house? That was a daunting prospect, she thought, looking back at the huge grey stone edifice behind them. And a potentially embarrassing topic to open a discussion on. Unexpectedly, she thought of Alfred. Alfred would be able to tell her. After all, she had the impression that it was the elderly gentleman, rather than the actual gentleman, who ran Wayne Manor.

When they reached the stables, Bruce gestured expansively. "Choose any of the horses you wish; apart from Perseus none of them should be any trouble."

Diana chose a bay mare with liquidly-black eyes, who seemed docile and placid. She was, of course, able to control flightier beasts, but as she was about to be trained in the use of pistols, Diana did not think it wise to attempt cleverness. At least no more than usual.

Unfortunately, Perseus was determined to cause trouble whether he was near a gunshot or nay. Seeing the mistress he had only just been reunited with riding another horse apparently did not sit well with the stallion. Diana had expected it, and taken the precaution of bringing an apple with her.

She walked over to him and he plucked it nimbly from her palm. "There, will that satisfy you, you brute?"

Bruce chuckled. "A brute, do you call him?"

"Well, yes. But then he is male, so one must not expect too much more," Diana teased.

Perseus placated, Diana and Bruce mounted and set off at a canter through the grounds, to the far end of the lake. The more Diana saw of this place, the more she admired its beauty and size. It had grandeur without pretension. She was not at home here...but she could at least see that there may come a day when she was.

They arrived at a practice range at the near end of the lake. There were archery targets set up, though Diana assumed they were to use them as shooting targets instead. They dismounting, leaving the horses to graze quietly on the grass. She believed Bruce (to an extent) that the horses would not bolt, but just in case she was glad they did not tether their mounts to a tree. She had seen tethered horses panic before, and it was never a pretty sight. Before letting his horse go, Bruce took the saddlebags from him, then faced Diana.

"Do you know how to load a flintlock?" She shook her head, and he beckoned her closer. "Loading and priming it is a fairly simple process, though it can take quite a while, for beginners. For now, observe my actions closely, and you may practice later. For the moment, firing with accuracy is the most important first step."

With that, he went through a series of quick movements of his hands. Diana had time to count the steps, and there appeared to be only three of them, but his fingers moved so swiftly and with such deftness that she missed most of the detail. It took him, all in all, no more than ten seconds. She had seen rifles being loaded before; hunting was a favourite pastime of gentlemen, and one her father had enjoyed. She had never seen him load a musket with quite that speed, although she had never known him to be a member—founder—of the 'Secret Service' either.

After he had finished, Bruce handed it to Diana. "Have you fired a gun before?"

"A few times. Though never with much skill," she admitted.

"Let me see."

She took a steady stance about fifteen yards from the target, rotating the cock to full and releasing the safety lock. That done, she raised the rifle to her shoulder, looking down the sights. She made sure her heart and breathing were calm, then she curled her finger around the trigger and squeezed. The recoil hit her shoulder hard, and while she did not miss, she only managed to hit the edge of the target. It still punched a sizable hole though, and Diana regarded the crescent of smoking straw unhappily.

She glanced at Bruce. "I suppose I'm to practice more?"

"You may practice all you wish, but firing like that you will not improve materially, Miss Prince."

"Oh? How am I deficient?"

He approached with such an air of professionalism it did not once occur to Diana he was probably far too close. He handed her a fresh rifle, and gestured for her to raise it. He took her hand and placed it further along the barrel, holding more of the rifle's weight. Then he moved the butt of the rifle slightly higher up her shoulder, in the hollow of the joint.

"Now try again."

She did as directed, delighted to find that, while she did not hit the bullseye, she had got her whole shot closer to the centre than it had been. Relatively speaking.

Bruce nodded. "Better." He handed her another one. "Now do it again."

She smiled wryly and did as he said. He continued handing her rifle after rifle until her arms ached with the sheer effort of keeping it held up. Her hands and arms were also blackened with powder and it was all she could smell. She was, however, significantly improved. A lot of the targets were totally shredded, splintered straw and wood.

Diana was heartily glad when Bruce did not hand her another rifle. In fact he was checking the time on his watch, so while his attention was elsewhere, she wiped a hand across her brow to clear it of the nervous sweat which had gathered there. As a man she did not find him intimidating, but as a tutor his intense scrutiny had made her a little uncomfortable. Still, she could reflect on this morning's progress with no small satisfaction; she now felt reasonably confident she could hit a target. If a target four feet wide. And fifteen yards away. And entirely stationary.

Bruce snapped the watch shut with a click sharp enough to draw Diana from her increasingly-melancholy reverie. "We shall leave it there for this morning," he said. "Your afternoon will be a busy one."

"Yes, I memorised the schedule you gave me. More Russian lessons."

"Indeed. How are you finding them?"

"You were correct; the alphabet is not so challenging as I had feared it would be, and I now know enough Russian to be able to say, 'I do not understand Russian', as well as my name. It is certainly easier than this was."

"You have done well at this too, Miss Prince."

"Have I? I rather suspect that was incredibly easy in comparison to all that is to come."

He smirked. "Well, that is true, but but I was attempting not to discourage progress. And you _have _progressed."

"Yes," she replied, "much as an infant may progress from crawling to toddling about on unsteady legs."

"Ah, but you forget. That is just the first step to something else."

"Enlighten me, Mr Wayne."

"Running on unsteady legs." Diana laughed.

When they arrived back at the manor, they stabled and groomed their own horses before going back inside. Alfred greeted them. "I trust your morning was successful, sir. Miss Prince, I have prepared a bath for you in your rooms."

"Thank you."

As she went upstairs, she heard Bruce ask, "Do _I _not warrant a bath, Alfred?"

"As always, there is a pitcher and bowl of cold water in your dressing room, Master Wayne."

Diana shook her head in wonderment. Never had she seen anyone with so informal a relationship to their butler. And as for allowing impudence from servants… But in their lessons so far, Alfred had been nothing but respectful to her, though respectful in the one way might treat an equal. Diana had found it strange only initially, but a skilled teacher always commanded respect, so she'd not treated him like a servant naturally, not only because of Bruce's previous warning. Yet she did not feel she knew anything about Alfred. And now that she knew the truth about Bruce's occupation, Mr Pennyworth seemed more enigmatic than his master.

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**A/N: Review please!**


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